LOYE'S  CALENDAR, 
LAYS  OF  THE  HUDSON, 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS. 


BY 

CHARLES    FENNO   HOFFMAN. 


NEW  YORK : 

D.  APPLETON  AJSTD  COMPANY, 
346  &  348  BROADWAY. 
M.DOOO.LVIII. 


ENTERED,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year 
1847,  by  D.  APPLETON  &  Co., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New-York. 


im 

CONTENTS. 


h 


LOVE'S  CALENDAR  ;  or  Eros  and  Anteros,     . 

LAYS  OF  THE  HUDSON. 

The  Forest  Cemetery,            ....  33 

The  Thaw-King :  his  Visit  to  New- York,  39 

Moonlight  upon  the  Hudson,        ...  45 
Kachesco : 

Part  I.  "  Camping  out"        ...  51 

Part  II.  The  Vigil  of  Faith,    ...  69 

The  Bob-O-Linkum,         ....  93 

Forest  Musings 96 

Indian  Summer,  1828,                        »  100 

What  is  Solitude  ? 102 

Primeval  Woods, 104 

The  Laurel, 106 

SONGS  AND  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Monterey, Ill 

"  Brunt  the  Fight," 113 


M801723 


1  CONTENTS. 

Le  Faineant, 315 

Sparkling  and  bright,                 ...  117 

Rosalie  Clare, 119 

The  Myrtle  and  Steel 121 

Algonquin  War  Song,          .        .        .  123 

Algonquin  Death  Song,     ....  125 

"Rio  Bravo," 120 

Buff  and  Blue, 133 

The  Men  of  Churubusco,      ....  135 

The  Mint  Julep, 137 

The  Loon  upon  the  Lake,    .        ,        .        .130 

Room,  Boys,  Room,          ....  140 

"Faraway," 142 

The  Sleigh  Bells, 144 

Morning  Hymn, 145 

The  Streamlet, 147 

St.  Valentine's  Day,     .        .        .        .        .148 

The  Blush, •  .  150 

Thy  Name, 151 

The  Language  of  Flowers,        .        .        .  153 

The  Call  of  Spring, 154 

Monody, 156 

Love's  Memories, 157 

Written  in  a  Lady's  Prayer  Book,    .        .  159 


-0 


CONTENTS .  5 

Anacreontic,         ......  160 

The  Song  of  the  Drowned,       ...  162 

No  more — No  more, 164 

A  Hunter's  Matin, 165 

My  Birchen  Bark, 166 

TheYatcher, 168 

Boat  Song,    .        .        ,        .        .        .        .169 

Where  dost  thou  loiter,  Spring  ?        .        .  171 

Chansonnette, 173 

Wake,  Lady,  Wake !        ....  174 

Serenade, 176 

The  Brook  and  the  Pine,           ...  177 

Think  of  me,  Dearest 179 

Away  to  the  Forest,          ....  181 

The  Waxen  Rose, 182 

Myne  Heartte, 184 

The  Lover's  Star, 186 

The  Invitation, 187 

The  Love  Test, 189 

Afterthought, 191 

Seek  not  to  understand  her,          .        .        .  192 

Withering,  Withering,      ...»  194 

A  place  for  me, 195 

'  Our  Friendship,"            ....  197 


O  CONTENTS. 

My  Dog, 198 

A  Portrait, ,200 

Buena  Vista, 202 

NOTES  ON  KACHESCO,         ....       207 


Cotie'0   (Haleniar. 


6— 


LOVE'S   CALENDAR; 

OR 

EROS  AND  ANTEROS. 


LOVE,  with  the  ancient  sages,  if  it  be  not  twin- 
born,  yet  hath  a  brother  wondrous  like  him,  called 
Anteros  ;  whom  while  he  seeks  all  about,  his  chance 
is  to  meet  with  many  false  and  feigning  desires  that 
wander  singly  up  and  down  in  his  likeness.  By 
them,  in  their  borrowed  garb,  is  Love  often  deceived  ; 
partly  that  his  eye  is  not  the  quickest  in  this  dark 
region  here  below  (which  is  not  love's  proper  sphere), 
partly  out  of  the  simplicity  and  credulity  which  is 
native  to  him,  and  embraces  and  consorts  him  with 
those  suborned  striplings,  as  if  they  were  his  mother's 
own  sons.  But  after  awhile,  soaring  above  the  sha 
dow  of  the  earth,  he  discerns  that  this  is  not  his  gen 
uine  brother,  as  he  imagined  ;  he  has  no  longer  the 
power  to  hold  fellowship  with  such  a  personate  mate. 
For  that  original  and  fiery  virtue  given  him,  by  fate, 
all  on  a  sudden  goes  out,  and  leaves  him  undeified 


o- 


10  LOVE'S    CALENDAR,    OR 

and  despoiled  of  all  his  force  ;  till  finding  Anteros  at 
last,  he  kindles  and  repairs  the  almost  faded  ammu 
nition  of  his  deity,  by  the  reflection  of  a  coequal  and 
homogeneal  fire. — MILTON. 


I. 

THEY  are  mockery  all — those  skies,  those  skies — 

Their  untroubled  depths  of  blue ; 
They  are  mockery  all — these  eyes,  these  eyes, 

Which  seem  so  warm  and  true. 
Each  quiet  star  in  the  one  that  lies, 
Each  meteor  glance  that  at  random  flies 

The  other's  lashes  through  ; 
They  are  mockery  all,  these  flowers  of  spring, 

Which  her  airs  so  softly  woo  ; 
And  the  love  to  which  we  would  madly  cling, 

Ay !  it  is  mockery  too  ; 
The  winds  are  false  which  the  perfume  stir, 

And  the  looks  deceive  to  which  we  sue, 
And  love  but  leads  to  the  sepulchre, 

Which  the  flowers  spring  to  strew. 

II. 

Ay  !  there  it  is,  that  winning  smile, 
That  look  that  cheats  my  heart  forever, 

That  tone  that  will  my  brain  beguile 
Till  reason  from  her  seat  shall  sever. 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS.  11 

All,  all  bewitching,  as  when  last 
I  for  the  twentieth  time  forswore  them, 

Resistless  as  when  first  I  cast 
My  whole  adoring  soul  before  them. 

Like  carrier  doves  that  hurry  back 

To  the  bright  home  from  which  they're  parted, 
However  blind  may  be  their  track, 

Or  far  the  goal  from  which  they  started, — 
So  from  Love's  jesses  if  e'er  free 

I  set  my  thoughts  one  moment  roving, 
Somehow  the  very  next  in  thee 

They  always  find  their  home  of  loving. 

ill. 
She  loves— but  'tis  not  me  she  loves  : — 

Not  me  on  whom  she  ponders, 
When  in  some  dream  of  tenderness 

Her  truant  fancy  wanders. 
The  forms  that  flit  her  visions  through 

Are  like  the  shapes  of  old, 
Where  tales  of  Prince  and  Paladin 

On  tapestry  are  told. 
Man  may  not  hope  her  heart  to  win, 

Be  his  of  common  mould  ! 

But  I — though  spurs  are  won  no  more 

Where  herald's  trump  is  pealing, 
Nor  thrones  carved  out  for  lady  fair 

Where  steel-clad  ranks  are  wheeling — 


12  LOVE'S    CALENDAR       OR 

I  loose  the  falcon  of  my  hopes 

Upon  as  proud  a  flight 
As  they  who  hawk'd  at  high  renown, 

In  song-ennobled  fight. 
If  daring  then  true  love  may  crown. 

My  love  she  must  requite  ! 


Tell  her  I  love  her — love  her  for  those  eyes 

Now  soft  with  feeling,  radiant  now  with  mirth, 
Which,  like  a  lake  reflecting  autumn  skies, 

Reveal  two  heavens  here  to  us  on  earth — 
The  one  in  which  their  soulful  beauty  lies, 

And  that  wherein  such  soulfulness  has  birth : 
Go,  autumn  flower,  before  the  season  flies, 

And  the  rude  winter  comes  thy  bloom  to  blast — • 
Go  !  and  with  all  of  eloquence  thou  hast, 

The  burning  story  of  my  love  discover, 

And  if  the  theme  should  fail,  alas !  to  move  her, 
Tell  her,  when  youth's  gay  budding  time  is  past, 

And  summer's  gaudy  flowering  is  over, 
Like  thee,  my  love  will  blossom  to  the  last ! 

v. 

Her  heart  is  like  a  harp  whose  strings 
At  will  are  touched  alike  by  all : 

Her  heart  is  like  a  bird  that  sings 
In  answer  to  each  fowler's  call. 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS.  13 

That  harp ! — has  it  one  secret  tone 
Reserved  for  master  hands  alone  ? 
That  bird  !  has  it  one  soulful  note 
Which  only  toward  its  mate  will  float  ? 

Let  it  not  wile  thy  soul  away — 

That  harp  with  its  beguiling  touch  ; 
Let  not  that  bird's  bewildering  lay 

Thrill  through  thy  bosom  over-much : 
They'll  cheat  thine  eyes  of  sleep  to-night, 
Yet  find  thee  dreaming  with  the  light 
With  heart  and  brain  all  idly  stirred — 
The  music  of  that  harp  and  bird  ! 

VI. 

'Tis  hard  to  share  her  smiles  with  many ! 

And  while  she  is  so  dear  to  me, 
To  fear  that  I,  far  less  than  any, 

Call  out  her  spirit's  witchery  ! 
To  find  my  inmost  heart  when  near  her 

Trembling  at  every  glance  and  tone, 
And  feel  the  while  each  charm  grow  dearer 

That  will  not  beam  for  me  alone. 

How  can  she  thus,  sweet  spendthrift,  squander 
The  treasures  one  alone  can  prize  1 

How  can  her  eyes  to  all  thus  wander, 
When  I  but  live  in  those  sweet  eyes  ? 

Those  syren  tones  so  lightly  spoken 
Cause  many  a  heart  I  know  to  thrill ; 


14  LOVE'S    CALENDAR,    OR 

But  mine,  and  only  mine,  till  broken, 
In  every  pulse  must  answer  still. 

VII. 

Well !  call  it  Friendship  !  have  I  asked  for  more, 

Even  in  those  moments,  when  I  gave  the  most  ? 

'Twas  but  for  thee,  I  looked  so  far  before  ! 

I  saw  thy  bark  was  hurrying  blindly  on, 

A  guideless  thing  upon  a  dangerous  coast. — 

With  thee, — with  thee,  where  would  I  not  have  gone  ? 

But  could  I  see  thee  drift  upon  the  shore, 

Unknowing  drift,  upon  a  shore  unknown  ? 

Yes,  call  it  Friendship,  and  let  no  revealing 

If  Love  be  there,  e'er  make  Love's  wild  name  heard, 

It  will  not  die,  if  it  be  worth  concealing  ! 

Call  it  then  Friendship — but  oh,  let  that  word 

Speak  but  for  me — for  me,  a  deeper  feeling 

Than  ever  yet  a  lover's  bosom  stirred  \ 

VIII. 

As  he  who,  on  some  clouded  night, 

When  wind  and  tide  attend  his  bark, 
Waits  for  the  North  star's  steady  light 

To  shine  above  the  waters  dark, 
Will  often  for  its  guiding  beam 

Mistake  some  wandering  meteor's  ray  ; 
But  wilder'd  by  that  fitful  gleam 
Doubt  yet  to  launch  upon  the  stream, 

Till  wind  and  tide  have  passed  away. 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

So  I,  if  ever  Life's  dark  sea 

Be  swept  by  some  propitious  gale, 
Look  for  my  guiding  light  in  thee, 

Before  I  dare  to  spread  my  sail ; 
So,  while  thy  smiles  deceitful  shine, 

Then  leave  all  darker  than  before, 
I  for  some  surer  beacon  pine, 
Till  breeze  and  flood  no  longer  mine, 

I'm  stranded  on  the  barren  shore. 

IX. 

I  will  love  her  no  more !—  't  is  a  waste  of  the  heart, 
This  lavish  of  feeling — a  prodigal's  part — 
Who,  heedless,  the  treasure  a  life  could  not  earn 
Squanders  forth  where  he  vainly  may  look  for  return. 

I  will  love  her  no  more — it  is  folly  to  give 
Our  best  years  to  one,  when  for  many  we  live. 
And  he  who  the  world  will  thus  barter  for  one, 
I  ween  by  such  traffic  must  soon  be  undone. 

I  will  love  her  no  more — it  is  heathenish  thus 

To  bow  to  an  idol  which  bends  not  to  us  | 

Which  heeds  not,  which  hears  not,  which  recks  not 

for  aught 
That  the  worship  of  years  to  its  altar  hath  brought. 

I  will  love  her  no  more — for  no  love  is  without 
Its  limit  in  measure,  and  mine  hath  run  out ; 


16  LOVE'S    CALENDAR,    OR 

She  engrosseth  it  all,  and  till  some  she  restore, 
Than  this  moment  I  love  her — how  can  I  love  more  1 


O  !  how  could  my  heart  so  falsely  guage, 
Singing  that  more  than  now  I  could  not  love  thee ! 

Others,  like  me,  may,  at  thy  budding  age, 

Hold  every  feeling  in  sweet  vassalage 
Unto  thy  charms.    But  I— by  all  above  me  !— 
Will  prove  thee  suzerain  of  my  soul  more  nearly  ; 

When  Time  his  arts  shall  'gainst  thy  beauty  wage, 
To  break  their  serfdom — serving  thee  more  dearly. 

Mark  how  the  sunset,  with  its  parting  hues, 
The  heaving  bosom  of  yon  river  staineth  ! 
To  yield  those  tints  the  grieving  waves  refuse, 
Nor  yet  that  purpling  light  at  last  will  lose 

Till  Night  itself,  like  Death,  above  them  reigneth ! 
So  more  and  more  will  brighten  to  the  last 
The  light,  which  once  upon  my  true  soul  cast, 
Reflected  there,  still  true  till  death  remaineth. 

XI. 

Think  not  I  love  thee— by  my  word  I  do  not ! 
Think  not  I  love  the— for  thy  love  I  sue  not ! 
And  yet,  I  fear,  there's  hardly  one  that  weareth 
Thy  beauty's  chains,  who  like  me  for  thee  careth  ! 
Who  joys  like  me  when  in  thy  joy  believing — 
Who  like  me  grieves  when  thou  dost  seem  but  griev 
ing  ? 


EROSANDANTERO3.  17 

But,  though  I  charms  so  perilous  eschew  not,  ^ 
Think  not  I  love  thee — trust  me  that  I  do  not ! 

Think  not  I  love  thee  ! — pr'ythee  why  so  coy,  then  1 
Doth  it  thy  maiden  bashfulness  annoy,  then  ? 
Sith  the  heart's  homage  still  will  be  up-welling, 
Where  Truth  and  Goodness  have  so  sweet  a  dwell 
ing? 

Surely,  unjust  one,  I  were  less  than  mortal, 
Knelt  I  not  thus  before  that  temple's  portal. 
Others  dare  to  love  thee— dare  what  I  do  not — 
Then  let  me  worship,  bright  one  while  I  woo  not ! 

XII. 

I  know  thou  dost  love  me — ay  !  frown  as  thou  wilt, 

And  curl  that  beautiful  lip, 
Which  I  never  can  gaze  on  without  the  guilt 

Of  burning  its  dew  to  sip  : 
I  know  that  my  heart  is  reflected  in  thine, 
And,  like  flowers  that  over  a  brook  incline, 

They  toward  each  other  dip. 

Though  thou  lookest  so  cold  in  these  halls  of  light, 

Mid  the  careless,  proud,  and  gay, 
I  will  steal  like  a  thief  in  thy  heart  at  night, 

And  pilfer  its  thoughts  away. 
I  will  come  in  thy  dreams  at  the  midnight  hour, 
And  thy  soul  in  secret  shall  own  the  power 

It  dares  to  mock  by  day. 


o- — ~ — 

18  LOVE'S     CALENDAR,    OR 

XIII. 

I  ask  not  what  shadow  came  over  her  heart, 

In  the  moment  I  thought  her  my  own— 
If  love  in  that  moment  could  really  depart, 

I  mourn  not  such  love  when  'tis  flown. 
I  ask  not  what  shadow  came  over  her  then, 

What  doubt  did  her  bosom  appal, 
For  I  know  where  her  heart  will  turn  truly  again, 

If  it  ever  turn  truly  at  all ! 

It  is  not  at  once  that  the  reed-bird  takes  wing, 

When  the  tide  rises  high  round  her  nest, 
But  again  and  again,  floating  back,  she  will  sing 

O'er  the  spot  where  her  love-treasures  rest : 
And  oh,  when  the  surge  of  distrust  would  invade, 

Where  the  heart  hoped  forever  to  dwell, 
Love  long  upon  loitering  pinion  is  stay'd, 

Ere  his  wing  waves  a  mournful  farewell. 

XIV. 

I  waited  for  thee— but  all  restless  waited, 
For  soul  like  mine,  it  ever  must  be  moving ; 

I  knew  one  spirit  with  my  own  was  mated, 
Yet  I  mistook  that  restlessness  for  loving : 

Of  mine  own  nature  an  ideal  created, 

And  loved  because  I  only  thus  was  fated. 

Fated,  bewilder'd  thus  in  thought  and  feeling, 
To  waste  the  freshness  of  my  soul  away, 


-O 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS.  19 

To  see  each  bud  of  spring  in  turn  revealing 

But  canker'd  blooms  upon  a  fruitless  spray, — 
Why  marvel  then  in  prayer  I  oft  am  kneeling, 
Sweet  minister  of  grace  !  to  bless  thy  spirit-healing  ? 

xv. 
My  life's  whole  pilgrimage  have  i  not  told — 

Mapping  my  Past  before  those  loving  eyes, 
With  such  minuteness  that  they  might  behold 

Each  hair-line  of  my  soul,  without  disguise? 
Was  Truth  not  woven,  every  line  acrost — 

An  iron  thread  thro'  silver  subtleties 
Of  Fancy  or  of  Feeling,  howe'er  gloss'd? 

Was  Faith  not  there,  at  rein  or  helm  the  while, 
A  guide,  a  check,  for  fancy's  luring  smile, 

A  guide,  a  check,  for  feeling  passion-toss'd  ? 
Oh,  how  then,  now,  can  thought  of  me  so  vile, 

Thought  as  of  one  to  truth  and  faith,  both  lost, 
Ignobly  come  thy  bosom  to  beguile, 

And  kill  affection  with  suspicion's  frost ! 

XVI. 

Nay,  plead  not  thou  art  dull  to-night, 

When  I  can  see  the  tear-drop  stealing, 
Soft  witness  to  love's  watchful  sight, 

Some  lurking  grief  within  revealing. 
Wouldst  thou  so  cheat  the  friend  thou  lovest 

Of  half  the  wealth  he  owns  in  thee  ? 
Why,  sweet  one,  by  that  smile  thou  provest 

Thy  tears  as  well  belong  to  me  ! 

0- c 


20  LOVE'S     CALENDAR,    OR 

Ah,  tears  again  ! — well,  let  them  flow, 

In  tenderness  thus  flow  for  ever, 
Those  last  upon  my  breast  I  know 

Fresh  from  affection's  fruitful  river. 
What  I  smiles  once  more  ! — Sweet  April  wonder, 

Thy  sun  and  rain  thou  wilt  not  miss  ; 
Why  should  not  I  then  have  my  thunder, 

And  melt  each  bolt  into  a  kiss  ? 

xvn. 
Life  seems  to  thee  more  earnest,  dearest ! 

And  is  it  not  the  same  with  me  ? 
Why,  sweet,  each  shadow  that  thou  fearest 

To  me  become's  reality — 
A  thought — a  pang  to  mar  my  gladness, 
And  cloud  my  brow  with  tender  sadness — 

And  all  of  loving  thee  ! 

The  jest  from  which  thou  often  turnest 
Is  only  love's  fond  thoughtful  guile, 

And  comes  from  heart  in  love  most  earnest 
When  it  would  make  thee  smile — 

Is  but  the  stream's  bright  circles  breaking 

Beneath  thy  blessed  tear-drops—waking 
Love's  dimples  there  the  while. 

XVIII. 

Thou  ask'st  me  why  that  thought  of  death 
Should  rise  within  our  souls  the  same — 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Why  now,  when  dearer  grows  each  breath 
Of  life,  we  shrink  not  at  his  name  ? 

What  is  it,  sweet,  but  faith  in  each 
The  other  could  not  live  alone  ? 

What  but  the  wish  at  once  to  reach 
The  land  where  change  is  never  known  ? 

As,  parted  here,  we  dare  not  think 

Of  wearying  years  to  come  between  ! 
Nay,  start  not,  love,  as  on  the  brink 

Of  what  may  be — as  it  hath  been — 
WE  only  part  like  twin-born  rays 

Diverging  from  the  morning  sun 
Again  within  his  orb  to  blaze 

When  fused  in  heaven  into  one. 

XIX. 

Ask  me  not  why  I  should  love  her, 

Look  upon  those  soul-full  eyes ! 
Look  while  mirth  or  feeling  move  her, 

And  see  there  how  sweetly  rise 
Thoughts  gay  and  gentle  from  a  breast 
Which  is  of  innocence  the  nest — 
Which,  though  each  joy  were  from  it  shred, 
By  truth  would  still  be  tenanted  ! 

See  from  those  sweet  windows  peeping, 
Emotions  tender,  bright,  and  pure, 

And  wonder  not  the  faith  I'm  keeping 
Every  trial  can  endure  ! 


22  LOVE'S    CALENDAR,    OR 

Wonder  not  that  looks  so  winning 
Still  for  me  new  ties  are  spinning  ; 
Wonder  not  that  heart  so  true 
Keeps  mine  from  ever  changing  too. 

xx. 

While  he  thou  lovest  were  not  the  same, 
If  scathless  all  from  passion's  flame, 
Wouldst  thou  the  temper'd  steel  forego 
At  thought  of  what  hath  made  it  so  ? 
Wouldst  thou  have  bann'd  the  sun  to  shine 
In  spring  upon  thy  chosen  pine, 
And  dwarf 'd  the  stature  of  the  tree 
That  thus  had  never  shelter'd  thee  ! 

Think'st  thou  the  dream  by  fancy  sent, 
The  fervor  by  "wild  passion  lent — 
Think'st  thou  the  wandering  tenderness 
That  yearns  each  loving  heart  to  bless — 
That  either,  or  that  all  can  be 
The  love  my  soul  still  kept  for  thee  ? 
Still  faithful  kept,  till  thou  or  death 
Should  come  to  claim  her  inmost  breath  I 

XXI. 

Thoughts — wild  thoughts  !  oh  why  will  ye  wander, 
Wander  away  from  the  task  that's  before  ye  ? 

Heart — weak  heart !  ah  why  art  thou  fonder, 
Fonder  of  her  than  ever  of  glory  1 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS.  23 

What  though  the  laurel  for  thee  hath  no  glitter, 
What  though  thy  soul  never  yearn'd  for  a  name  : 

When  did  Love  garland  a  brow  that  was  fitter 
To  wake  in  Love's  bosom  the  wild  wish  of  fame  1 

Doth  she  not  watch  o'er  thine  every  endeavor  ? 

Leans  not  her  heart  in  warm  faith  on  thine  own  ? 
If  thou  sit  doubting  and  dreaming  forever, 

Too  late  thou'lt  discover  that  her  dream  has  flown  ! 
Ay  !  though  each  thought  that  is  tender  and  glowing 

Hath  yet  no  errand,  save  only  to  her — 
She  may  forget  thee,  while  time  is  thus  flowing  ; 

Thou  waste  thy  worship — fond  idolater ! 


In  dreams — in  dreams  she  answers  to  my  yearning, 
And  fondly  lays  her  downy  cheek  to  mine  ; 

In  dreams  each  night  that  faithful  form  returning 
Will  on  my  breast  with  sweet  content  recline : 

Awhile  my  heart  keeps  time  to  her  soft  breathing, 

Heaving  in  motion  to  her  bosom  heaving. 

I  wake — and  oh,  there  is  an  inward  sinking, 
A  drear  soul-faintness  coming  o'er  me  then, 

That  through  the  livelong  day  but  makes  my  thinking 
One  fond,  fond  aching  thus  to  dream  again. — 

Soul — soul,  where  art  thou  through  the  day  employ'd, 
Only  to  fill  at  night  my  bosom's  void  1 


24  LOVE'S    CALENDAR,    OR 

XXIII. 

Why  should  I  murmur  lest  she  may  forget  me  ? 

Why  should  I  grieve  to  be  by  her  forgot  ? 
Better,  then,  wish  that  she  had  never  met  me, 

Better,  oh  far,  she  should  remember  not ! 

Yet  that  sad  wish — ah,  would  it  not  come  o'er  her 
Knew  she  the  heart  on  which  she  now  relies? 

Strong  it  is  only  in  beating  to  adore  her — 
Faint  in  the  moment  her  lov'd  image  flies  ! 

Why  should  I  murmur  lest  she  may  forget  me  ? 

Would  I  not  rather  be  remember'd  not 
Ere  have  her  grieve  that  she  had  ever  met  me  1 

/"only  suffer  if  I  am  forgot ! 

XXIV. 

They  say  that  thou  art  alter'd,  Amy, 

They  say  that  thou  no  more 
Dost  keep  within  thy  bosom,  Amy, 

The  faith  that  once  it  wore  ; 

They  tell  me  that  another  now 

Doth  thy  young  heart  assail ; 
They  tell  me,  Amy,  too,  that  thou 

Dost  smile  on  his  lore  tale. 

But  I — I  heed  them  not,  my  Amy, 

Thy  heart  is  like  my  own  ; 
And  still  enshrined  in  mine,  my  Amy, 

Thine  image  lives  alone  : 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS.  25 

Whate'er  a  rival's  hopes  have  fed, 

Thy  soul  cannot  be  moved 
Till  he  shall  plead  as  I  have  plead, 

And  love  as  I  have  loved. 


Take  back  then  thy  pledges, — and  peace  to  that  heart 
In  which  faith  like  a  shadow  can  come  and  depart ! 
From  which  love,  that  seems  cherished  most  fondly 

to-day, 
Is  cast,  without  grieving,  to-morrow  away. 

Such  a  heart  it  may  sadden  mine  own  to  resign, 

But  it  never  was  mated  to  mingle  with  mine. 

Love  another !     Nay,  shrink  not — more  wisely  thou 

wilt 
If  truth  to  thy  plighted  in  thine  eyes  be  guilt. 

I  claim  not,  I  ask  not  one  thought  in  thy  breast 
While  that  thought  brings  misgiving  and  doubt  to  the 

rest. 

If  the  heart  that  thus  fails  thee  can  bid  me  depart, 
Take  back  all  love's  pledges, — and  peace  to  that 

heart ! 

XXVI. 

They  tell  me  that  my  trusting  heart 
Thy  fondness  is  deceived  in  ; 


26  LOVE'S    CALENDAR,    OR 

They  say  that  thou  all  faithless  art 
Whom  I  so  well  believed  in  ! 

1  heed  not,  reck  not  what  they  say 
So  earnestly  about  thee  ; 

I'd  rather  trust  my  soul  away 
Than  for  one  moment  doubt  thee 

Like  mine  thy  youth  was  early  lost ; 

Thy  vows  too  rashly  plighted  ; 
Thy  budding  life  by  wintry  frost 

Of  grief  untimely,  blighted. 
Devotion  is  most  deep  and  pure 

In  souls  by  sorrow  shaded, 
And  love  like  ours  will  still  endure 

When  brighter  ties  have  faded. 


XXVII. 

Alas  !   if  she  be  false  to  me 

It  is  for  her  alone  I  weep  ! 

'Tis  that  in  coming  years  I  see 

Her  suffering  from  such  frailty 

Than  mine,  oh,  far  more  deep  ! 

So  tender,  yet  so  false  withal, 

So  proud,  and  yet  so  frail, 
Responding  to  each  flatterer's  call, 
Loving,  yet  often  blind  to  all 
Of  love  that  could  not  fail — 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS. 

Oh  who  will  watch  her  wayward  soul, 

Who  minister  when  I  am  gone, 
Who  point  her  spirit  to  its  goal, 
Who  with  unwearying  love  console 

That  truth- abandon' d  one  ? 

XXVIII. 

I  knew  not  how  I  loved  thee— no ! 
I  knew  it  not  till  all  was  o'er— 

Until  thy  lips  had  told  me  so- 
Had  told  me  I  must  love  no  more ! 

I  knew  not  how  I  loved  thee !— yet 
I  long  had  loved  thee  wildly  well ! 

I  thought  'twere  easy  to  forget — 

I  thought  a  word  would  break  the  spell : 

And  even  when  that  word  was  spoken, 

Ay !  even  till  the  very  last, 
I  thought,  that  spell  of  faith  once  broken, 

I  could  not  long  lament  the  past. 
O,  foolish  heart !     O,  feeble  brain, 

That  love  could  thus  deceive— subdue ! 
Since  hope  cannot  revive  again, 

Why  cannot  memory  perish  too  ? 

XXIX. 

The  conflict  is  over,  the  struggle  is  past, 
I  have  look' d— I  have  loved— I  have  worship' d  my 
last; 


28  LOVE'S    CALENDAR,    OR 

And  now  back  to  the  world,  and  let  fate  do  her  worst 
On  the  heart  that  for  thee  such  devotion  hath  nurs'd. — 
To  thee  its  best  feelings  were  trusted  away, 
And  life  hath  hereafter  not  one  to  betray. 

Yet  not  in  resentment  thy  love  I  resign  ; 
I  blame  not— upbraid  not  one  motive  of  thine ; 
I  ask  not  what  change  has  come  over  thy  heart, 
I  reck  not  what  chances  have  doom'd  us  to  part ; 
I  bu-t  know  thou  hast  told  me  to  love  thee  no  more, 
And  I  still  must  obey  where  I  once  did  adore. 

Farewell,  then,  thou  loved  one — oh  !   loved  but  too 

well, 

Too  deeply,  too  blindly,  for  language  to  tell — 
Farewell !  thou  hast  trampled  love's  faith  in  the  dust, 
Thou  hast  torn  from  my  bosom  its  hope  and  its  trust ! 
But  if  thy  life's  current  with  bliss  it  would  swell, 
I  would  pour  out  my  own  in  this  last  fond  farewell ! 

XXX. 

We  parted  in  kindness,  but  spoke  not  of  parting ; 

We  talk'd  not  of  hopes  that  we  both  must  resign  ; 
I  saw  not  her  eyes,  and  but  one  teardrop  starting 

Fell  down  on  her  hand  as  it  trembled  in  mine : 

Each  felt  that  the  past  we  could  never  recover, 
Each  felt  that  the  future  no  hope  could  restore, 

She  shudder'd  at  wringing  the  heart  of  her  lover, 
/dared  not  to  say  I  must  meet  her  no  more. 


EROS    AND    ANTEROS.  29 

Long  years  have  gone  by,  and  the  springtime  smiles 
ever 

As  o'er  our  young  loves  it  first  smiled  in  their  birth  ; 
Long  years  have  gone  by,  yet  that  parting,  oh  !  never 

Can  it  be  forgotten  by  either  on  earth. 

The  note  of  each  wild  bird  that  carols  toward  heaven 
Must  tell  her  of  swift-winged  hopes  that  were  mine, 

While  the  dew  that  steals  over  each  blossom  at  even 
Tells  me  of  the  teardrop  that  wept  their  decline. 


of 


1  —  THOU  didst  hear  the  far  off  Ocean  sound, 
Inviting  thee  from  hill  and  vale  away, 
To  mingle  thy  deep  waters  with  its  own  ; 
And  at  that  voice  thy  steps  did  onward  glide, 
Onward  from  echoing  hill  and  valley  lone — 
Like  thine  oh  be  my  course  !  nor  turned  aside 
While  listing  to  the  soundings  of  a  land 
That,  like  the  ocean-call,  invites  me  to  its  strand." 
MRS.  OAKKS  SMITH'S  Sonnet  to  the  Hudson 


LAYS  OF  THE  HUDSON 


THE  FOREST  CEMETERY. 


WILD  TAWASENTHA  !*  in  thy  brook -laced  glen 

The  doe  no  longer  lists  her  lost  fawn's  bleating, 
As  panting  there,  escaped  from  hunter's  ken 

She  hears  the  chase  o'er  distant  hills  retreating ; 
No  more,  uprising  from  the  fern  around  her, 

The  Indian  archer,  from  his  "  still-hunt"  lair, 
Wings  the  death-shaft  which  hath  that  moment  found 
her 

When  Fate  seemed  foiled  upon  her  footsteps  there : 

*  Tawasentha,  meaning  in  Mohawk,  "  The  place 
of  the  many  dead,"  is  the  finely  appropriate  name 
of  the  new  Forest  Cemetery  on  the  banks  of  the  Hud 
son,  between  Albany  and  Troy. 


34  L  AY  SOFT  HE    HUDSON. 

II. 

Wild  Tawasentha !  on  thy  cone-strew'd  sod, 

O'er  which  yon  Pine  his  giant  arm  is  bending, 
No  more  the  Mohawk  marks  its  dark  crown  nod 

Against  the  sun's  broad  disc  toward  night  descend 
ing, 
Then  crouching  down  beside  the  brands  that  redden 

The  columned  trunks  which  rear  thy  leafy  dome, 
Forgets  his  toils  in  hunter's  slumbers  leaden, 

Or  visions  of  the  Red  Man's  spirit  home  : 


III. 

But  where  his  calumet  by  that  lone  fire, 
At   night    beneath   these    cloister'd   boughs  was 

lighted, 

The  Christian  orphan  will  in  prayer  aspire, 
The    Christian    parent    mourn    his    proud    hope 

blighted ; 
And  in  thy  shade  the  mother's  heart  will  listen 

The  spirit-cry  of  babe  she  clasps  no  more, 
And  where  thy  rills  through  hemlock  branches  glisten, 
There  many  a  maid  her  lover  will  deplore. 


Here  children  linked  in  love  and  sport  together, 
Who  check  their  mirth  as  creaks  the  slow  hearse  by, 

Will  totter  lonely  in  life's  autumn  weather, 
To  ponier  where  life's  springtime  blossoms  lie  ; 


THE    FOREST    CEMETERY.  35 

And  where  the  virgin  soil  was  never  dinted 
By  the  rude  ploughshare  since  creation's  birth, 

Year  after  year  fresh  furrows  will  be  printed 
Upon  the  sad  cheek  of  the  grieving  earth. 


Yon  sun  returning  in  unwearied  stages, 

Will  gild  the  cenotaph's  ascending  spire, 
O'er  names  on  history's  yet  unwritten  pages 

That  unborn  crowds  will,  worshipping,  admire  ; 
Names  that  shall  brighten  through  my  country's  story 

Like  meteor  hues  that  fire  her  autumn  woods, 
Encircling  high  her  onward  course  of  glory 

Like  the   bright  bow  which  spans  her  mountain 
floods. 


Here  where  the  flowers  have  bloomed  and  died  for 
ages — 

Bloomed  all  unseen  and  perished  all  unsung — 
On  youth's  green  grave,  traced  out  beside  the  sage's, 

Will  garlands  now  by  votive  hearts  be  flung ; 
And  sculptured  marble  and  funereal  urn, 

O'er  which  gray  birches  to  the  night  air  wave, 
Will  whiten  through  thy  glades  at  every  turn, 

And  woo  the  moonbeam  to  some  poet's  grave  1 


36  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

VII. 

Thus  back  to  Nature,  faithful,  do  we  come, 

When  Art  hath  taught  us  all  her  best  beguiling — 
Thus  blend  their  ministry  around  the  tomb 

Where,  pointing  upward,  still  sits  Nature  smiling ! 
And  never,  Nature's  hallowed  spots  adorning, 

Hath  Art,  with  her  a  sombre  garden  dress'd, 
Wild  Tawasentha !  in  this  vale  of  mourning, 

With  more  to  consecrate  their  children's  rest. 

VIII. 

And  still  that  stream  will  hold  its  winsome  way, 

Spar-Ming  as  now  upon  the  frosty  air, 
When  all  in  turn  shall  troop  in  pale  array 

To  that  dim  land  for  which  so  few  prepare. 
Still  will  yon  oak  which  now  a  sapling  waves, 

Each  year  renewed,  with  hardy  vigor  grow, 
Expanding  still  to  shade  the  nameless  graves, 

Of  nameless  men  that  haply  sleep  below. 

IX. 

Nameless  as  they, — in  one  dear  memory  blest, 

How  tranquil  in  these  phantom  peopled  bowers 
Could  I  here  wait  the  partner  of  my  rest 

In  some  green  nook,  that  should  be  only  ours  ; 
Under  old  boughs,  where  moist  the  livelong  summer 

The  moss  is  green  and  springy  to  the  tread, 
When  thou,  my  friend,  shouldst  be  an  often  comer 

To  pierce  the  thicket,  seeking  for  my  bed : 


Q— —7? 

THE    FOREST    CEMETERY.  37 

X. 

For  thickets  heavy  all  around  should  screen  it 

From  careless  gazer  that  might  wander  near, 
Nor  e'en  to  him  who  by  some  chance  had  seen  it, 

Would  I  have  aught  to  catch  his  eye,  appear  : 
One  lonely  stem— a  trunk  those  old  boughs  lifting, 

Should  mark  the  spot ;  and,  haply,  new  thrift  owe 
To  that  which  upward  through  its  sap  was  drifting 

From  what  lay  mouldering  round  its  roots  below. 

XI. 

The  Wood-duck  there  her  glossy-throated  brood 
Should  unmolested  gather  to  her  wings  ; 

The  schoolboy,  awed,  as  near  that  mound  he  stood, 
Should  spare  the  Redstart's  nest  that  o'er  it  swings, 

And  thrill  when  there,  to  hear  the  cadenc'd  winding 
Of  boatman's  horn  upon  the  distant  river, 

Dell  unto  dell  in  long-link'd  echoes  binding- 
Like  far  off  requiem,  floating  on  for  ever. 

XII. 

There  my  freed  spirit  with  the  dawn's  first  beaming 

Would  come  to  revel  round  the  dancing  spray  ; 
There  would  it  linger  with  the  day's  last  gleaming, 

To  watch  thy  footsteps  thither  track  their  way. 
The  quivering  leaf  should  whisper  in  that  hour 

Things  that  for  thee  alone  would  have  a  sound, 
And  parting  boughs  my  spirit-glances  shower 

In  gleams  of  light  upon  the  mossy  ground. 


38  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

XIII. 

There,  when  long  years  and  all  thy  journeyings  over — 

Loosed  from  this  world  thyself  to  join  the  free, 
Thou  too  wouldst  come  to  rest  beside  thy  lover 

In  that  sweet  cell  beneath  our  Trysting-Tree  ; 
Where  earliest  birds  above  our  narrow  dwelling 

Should  pipe  their  matins  as  the  morning  rose, 
And  woodland  symphonies  majestic  swelling, 

In  midnight  anthem,  hallow  our  repose. 


THE    THAW-KING: 
HIS  VISIT  TO  NEW-^ORK. 


HE  comes  on  the  wings  of  the  warm  south-west, 

In  the  saffron  hues  of  the  sunbeam  dress'd, 

And  lingers  awhile  on  the  placid  bay, 

As  the  ice-cakes  languidly  steal  away, 

To  drink  those  gems  which  the  wave  turns  up, 

Like  Egyptian  pearls  in  the  Roman's  cup. 

Then  hies  to  the  wharves  where  the  hawser  binds 

The  impatient  ship  from  the  wistful  winds, 

And  slackens  each  rope  till  it  hangs  from  on  high, 

Less  firmly  pencil'd  against  the  sky  ; 

And  sports  in  the  stiffen 'd  canvas  there 

Till  its  folds  float  out  in  the  wooing  air  : 

Then  leaves  these  quellers  of  Ocean's  pride 

To  swing  from  the  pier  on  the  lazy  tide. 

He  reaches  the  Battery's  grassy  bed, 

And  the  earth  smokes  out  from  beneath  his  tread  ; 


40  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

And  he  turns  him  about  to  look  wistfully  back 
On  each  charm  that  he  leaves  on  his  beautiful  track ; 
Each  islet  of  green  which  the  bright  waters  fold, 
Like  emeralds,  fresh  from  their  bosom  roll'd, 
The  sea  just  peering  the  headlands  through 
Where  the  sky  is  lost  in  its  deeper  blue, 
And  the  thousand  barks  which  securely  sweep 
With  silvery  wing  round  the  land-lock'd  deep. 

He  loiters  awhile  on  the  springy  ground, 
To  watch  the  children  gambol  around, 
And  thinks  it  hard  that  a  touch  from  him 
Cannot  make  the  aged  as  lithe  of  limb  ; 
That  he  has  no  power  to  melt  the  rime, 
The  stubborn  frost  that  is  made  by  Time  ; 
And  sighing,  he  leaves  the  urchins  to  play, 
And  launches  at  last  on  the  world  of  Broadway. 

There  were  faces  and  figures  of  heavenly  monld 
Of  charms  not  yet  by  the  poet  told  ; 
There  were  dancing  plumes,  there  were  mantles  gay, 
]      Flowers  and  ribbands  flaunting  there, 
jl  Such  as  of  old  on  a  festival  day 

The  Idalian  nymphs  were  wont  to  wear. 
And  the  Thaw-king  felt  his  cheek  flush  high, 

And  his  pulses  flutter  in  every  limb, 
As  he  gazed  on  many  a  beaming  eye, 
And  many  a  form  that  flitted  by, 

Wi:h  twinkling  foot  and  ankle  trim. 


-o 


THE    THAW-KING. 

And  he  practised  many  an  idle  freak, 
As  he  lounged  the  morning  through ; 

He  sprung  the  frozen  gutters  aleak, 
For  want  of  aught  else  to  do ; 

And  left  them  black  as  a  libeller's  ink, 

To  gurgle  away  to  the  sewer-sink. 

He  sees  a  beggar,  gaunt  and  grim, 

Arouse  a  miser's  choler, 
And  he  laughs  while  he  melts  the  soul  of  him 

To  fling  the  wretch  a  dollar  ; 
And  he  thinks  how  small  a  heaven  'twould  take 
For  a  world  of  souls  like  his  to  make. 


He  read  placarded  upon  the  wall, 

"  That  the  country  now  on  its  friends  did  call, 

For  liberty  was  in  danger  ;" 
And  he  went  to  a  room  ten  feet  by  four, 
Where  a  chairman  and  sec.,  and  couple  more 

(Making  jive  with  our  friendly  stranger), 
By  the  aid  of  four  slings  and  two  tallow  tapers, 
Were  preparing  to  tell  in  the  morning  papers 

Of  the  UNION  unbroken, 

By  this  very  token 
"  That  the  people  in  mass  last  night  had  woken 
And  their  will  at  the  primal  meetings  spoken  !" 
And  he  trembled  himself  to  the  tip  of  his  wing 
At  the  juggling  might  of  the  Caucus  king. 


42  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

He  saw  an  Oneida  baskets  peddling 

Around  the  place  where  the  polls  w,ere  held  ; 
And  a  Fed.  the  Red -skin  kicked,  for  meddling, 
As  the  Indian  a  Democrat's  ballot  spell'd. 
That  son  of  the  soil 
Who  had  no  vote, 
How  dared  he  to  spoil 
A  trick  so  neat, 
Meant  only  to  cheat 
The  voters  who  hither  from  Europe  float ! 

And  now  as  the  night  falls  chill  and  gray, 

Like  a  drizzling  rain  on  a  new  made  tomb, 
And  his  father,  the  Sun,  has  slunk  away, 

And  left  him  alone  to  gas  and  gloom, 
The  Thaw-king  steals  in  a  vapor  thin, 
Through  the  lighted  porch  of  a  house,  wherein 
Music  and  mirth  were  gaily  mingled  ; 

And  groups  like  hues  in  one  bright  flower 
Dazzled  the  Thaw-king  while  he  singled 

Some  one  on  whom  to  try  his  power. 

He  enters  first  in  a  lady's  eyes, 

And  thrusts  at  a  dandy's  heart ; 
But  the  vest  that  is  made  by  Frost,  defies 

The  point  of  the  Thaw-king's  dart ; 
And  the  baffled  spirit  pettishly  flies 

On  a  pedant  to  try  his  art ; 


THETHAW-KINQ.  43 

But  his  aim  is  equally  foil'd  by  the  dust- 
Y  lore  that  envelopes  the  man  of  must. 

And  next  he  tries  with  a  fiddler's  sighs 

To  melt  the  heart  of  a  belle  ; 
But  around  her  waist  there's  a  stout  arm  placed, 

Which  shields  that  lady  well. 
And  that  waist !  oh !  that  waist — it  is  one  that  you 

would 
Like  to  clasp  in  a  waltz,  or — wherever  you  could. 

Her  figure  was  fashion' d  tall  and  slim, 

But  with  rounded  bust  and  shapely  limb  ; 
And  her  queen-like  step  as  she  trod  the  floor, 

And  her  look  as  she  bridled  in  beauty's  pride, 
Was  such  as  the  Tyrian  heroine  wore 
When  she  blush' d  alone  on  the  conscious  shore, 

The  wandering  Dardan's  unwedded  bride. 

And  the  Thaw-king  gazed  on  that  lady  bright, 
With  her  form  of  love  and  her  looks  of  light, 
Till  his  spirits  began  to  wane, 

And  his  wits  were  put  to  rout ; 

And  entering  into  a  poet's  brain, 

He  thaw'd  these  verses  out : — 

"  River,  oh  river,  thou  rovest  free 

From  the  mountain  height  to  the  fresh  blue  sea, 


44  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

Free  thyself,  while  in  silver  chain 
Linking  each  charm  of  land  and  main. 
Calling  at  first  thy  banded  waves 
From  hill-side  thickets  and  fern-hid  caves, 
From  the  splinter' d  crag  thou  leap'st  below 
Through  leafy  glades  at  will  to  flow — 
Idling  now  with  the  dallying  sedge, 
Slumbering  now  by  the  steep's  moss'd  edge, 
With  statelier  march  once  more  to  break 
From  wooded  valley  to  breezy  lake  ; 
Yet  all  of  these  scenes,  though  fair  they  be, 
River,  oh  river,  are  bann'd  to  me  ! 

"  River,  oh  river !  upon  thy  tide 
Gaily  the  freighted  vessels  glide  : 
Would  that  thou  thus  couldst  bear  away 
The  thoughts  that  burthen  my  weary  day, 
Or  that  I,  from  all,  save  them,  set  free, 
Though  laden  still,  might  rove  with  thee. 
True  that  thy  waves  brief  lifetime  find, 
And  live  at  the  will  of  the  wanton  wind — 
True  that  thou  seekest  the  ocean's  flow 
To  be  lost  therein  for  evermoe  ! 
Yet  the  slave  who  worships  at  glory's  shrine, 
But  toils  for  a  bubble  as  frail  as  thine, 
But  loses  his  freedom  here,  to  be 
Forgotten  as  soon  as  in  death  set  free." 


MOONLIGHT  UPON  THE  HUDSON. 


WRITTEN  AT  WEST  POINT. 


I'M  not  romantic,  but,  upon  my  word, 

There  are  some  moments  when  one  can't  help 

feeling 
As  if  his  heart's  chords  were  so  strongly  stirr'd 

By  things  around  him,  that  'tis  vain  concealing 
A  little  music  in  his  soul  still  lingers, 
Whene'er  its  keys  are  touch'd  by  Nature's  fingers  : 

And  even  here  upon  this  settee  lying 

With  many  a  sleepy  traveller  near  me  snoozing, 
Thoughts  warm  and  wild  are  through  my  bosom 
flying, 

Like  founts  when  first  into  the  sunshine  oozing  : 
For  who  can  look  on  mountain,  sky  and  river, 
Like  these,  and  then  be  calm  and  cold  as  ever ! 


46  L  AY  S    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

Bright  DIAN,  who,  Camilla-like,  dost  skim  yon 
Azure  fields — Thou  who,  once  earthward  bendingj 

Didst  loose  thy  virgin  zone  to  young  Endymion, 
On  dewy  Latmos  to  his  arms  descending — 

Thou  whom  the  world  of  old  on  every  shore, 

Type  of  thy  sex,  Triformis,  did  adore : 

Tell  me — where'er  thy  silver  bark  be  steering, 
By  bright  Italian  or  soft  Persian  lands, 

Or  o'er  those  island-studded  seas  careering, 
Whose  pearl-charged    waves  dissolve  on  choral 
strands ; 

Tell  if  thou  visitest,  thon  heavenly  rover, 

A  lovelier  stream  than  this  the  wide  world  over  ? 

Doth  Achelous  or  Araxes  flowing 
Twin-born  from  Pindus,  but  ne'er  meeting  bro 
thers- 
Doth  Tagus  o'er  his  golden  pavement  glowing, 
Or  cradle-freighted  Ganges,  the  reproach  of  mo 
thers, 

The  storied  Rhine,  or  far-famed  Guadalquiver — 
Match  they  in  beauty  my  own  glorious  river  ? 

What  though  no  cloister  gray  nor  ivied  column 
Along  these  clifts  their  sombre  ruins  rear  ! 

What  though  no  frowning  tower  nor  temple  solemn 
Of  tyrants  tell  and  superstition  here — 


O- 


MOONLIGHT  UPON  THE  HUDSON.   47 

What  though  that  mouldering  fort's  fast  crumbling 

walls 
Did  ne'er  enclose  a  baron's  banner'd  halls- 


Its  sinking  arches  once  gave  back  as  proud 
An  echo  to  the  war-blown  clarion's  peal, 

As  gallant  hearts  its  battlements  did  crowd, 
As  ever  beat  beneath  a  vest  of  steel, 

When  herald's  trump  or  knighthood's  haughtiest  day 

Call'd  forth  chivalric  host  to  battle  fray : 

For  here  amid  these  woods  He  once  kept  court 
Before  whose  mighty  soul  the  common  crowd 

Of  heroes,  who  alone  for  fame  have  fought, 
Are  like  the  patriarch's  sheaves  to  heaven's  chosen 
bow'd — 

HE  who  his  country's  eagle  taught  to  soar, 

And  fired  those  stars  which  shine  o'er  every  shore. 

And  sights  and  sounds  at  which  the  world  have 

wonder'd 

Within  these  wild  ravines  have  had  their  birth  ; 
Young  FREEDOM'S  cannon  from  these  glens  have 

thunder'd, 

And  sent  their  startling  voices  o'er  the  earth  ; 
And  not  a  verdant  glade  nor  mountain  hoary 
But  treasures  up  within  the  glorious  story 


o 

48  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

And  yet  not  rich  in  high-souPd  memories  only, 
Is  every  moon-kiss'd  headland  round  me  gleaming, 

Each  cavern'd  glen  and  leafy  valley  lonely, 

And  silver  torrent  o'er  the  bald  rock  streaming  ; 

But  such  soft  fancies  here  may  breathe  around, 

As  make  Vaucluse  and  Clarens  hallow'd  ground. 

Where,  tell  me  where,  pale  watcher  of  the  night — 
Thou  that  to  love  so  oft  has  lent  its  soul. 

Since  the  lorn  Lesbian  languish' d  'neath  thy  light, 
Or  fated  Romeo  to  his  Juliet  stole— 

Where  dost  thou  find  a  fitter  place  on  earth 

To  nurse  young  love  in  hearts  like  theirs  to  birth  ? 

Oh,  loiter  not  upon  that  fairy  shore 
To  watch  the  lazy  barks  in  distance  glide, 

When  sunset  brightens  on  their  sails  no  more, 
And  stern -lights  twinkle  in  the  dusky  tide  ; 

Loiter  not  there,  young  heart,  at  that  soft  hour, 

What  time  the  dueen  of  Night  proclaims  love's 
power. 

Even  as  I  gaze,  upon  my  memory's  track 
Bright  as  yon  coil  of  light  along  the  deep, 

A  scene  of  early  youth  comes  dream-like  back, 
Where  two  stand  gazing  from  the  tide-wash 'd  steep, 

A  sanguine  stripling,  just  toward  manhood  flushing, 

A  girl,  scarce  yet  in  ripen'd  beauty  blushing. 


MOONLIGHT  UPON  THE  HUDSON.  49 

The  hour  is  his !  and  while  his  hopes  are  soaring 
Doubts  he  that  maiden  will  become  his  bride  ? 

Can  she  resist  that  gush  of  wild  adoring 

Fresh  from  a  heart  full-volumed  as  the  tide  ? 

Tremulous,  but  radiant,  is  that  peerless  daughter 

Of  loveliness,  as,  is  the  star-strown  water ! 

The  moist  leaves  glimmer  as  they  glimmer 'd  then, 
Alas  !  how  oft  have  they  been  since  renew'd, 

How  oft  the  whippoorwill,  from  yonder  glen, 
Each  year  has  whistled  to  her  callow  brood, 

How  oft  have  lovers  by  yon  star's  same  gleam, 

Dream'd  here  of  bliss— and  waken'd    from  their 
dream ! 

But  now  bright  Peri  of  the  skies,  descending 
Thy  pearly  car  hangs  o'er  yon  mountain  crest, 

And  Night,  more  nearly  now  each  step  attending, 
As  if  to  hide  thy  envied  place  of  rest, 

Closes  at  last  thy  very  couch  beside, 

A  matron  curtaining  a  virgin  bride. 

Farewell !  Though  tears  on  every  leaf  are  starting, 
While  through  the  shadowy  boughs  thy  glances 
quiver, 

As  of  the  good,  when  heavenward  hence  departing, 
Shines  thy  last  smile  upon  the  placid  river, 

So — could  I  fling  o'er  glory's  tide  one  ray — 

Would  I  too  steal  from  this  dark  world  away. 


K  AC  HE  SCO: 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  SOURCES  OF  THE 
HUDSON. 


He  held  him  with  his  glittering  eye. — COLERIDGE. 


L'ENVO  Y. 

THE  fragile  bark  whereon  the  Indian  traces 
Rude  tokens  of  his  path  for  other  eyes. 
Sometimes  outlasts  the  tree  on  which  he  places 
Anew  the  birchen  scroll  he  thence  had  peeled, 
And  while  he  wanders  forth  to  other  skies, 
Some  curious  Settler,  ere  his  axe  he  wield, 
The  frail  memorial  careful  bears  away  : — 
So  I  have  freely  traced  a  woodland  lay, 
In  lines  as  quaint  as  chart  of  forest  child, 
Content,  like  him,  if  passing  on  my  way, 
I  cheer  some  friendly  heart  in  life's  dull  wild, 
A  birchen  scroll  from  birchen  tree  y'cleft, 
A  trail  of  moccasin  in  wildering  forest  left. 


KACHESCO.  51 


PART  I.— "CAMPING  OUT." 


'TWAS  in  the  mellow  autumn  time, 
That  revel  of  our  masquing  clime, 

When,  as  the  Indian  crone  believes, 
The  rainbow  tints  of  Nature's  prime 

She  in  her  forest  banner  weaves  ; 
To  show  in  that  bright  blazonry, 
How  the  young  earth  did  first  supply 
Each  gorgeous  hue  that  paints  the  sky, 

Or  in  the  sunset  billow  heaves. 


'Twas  in  the  mellow  autumn  time, 
When,  from  the  spongy,  swollen  swamp, 

The  lake  a  darker  tide  receives  ; 
When  nights  are  growing  long  and  damp  ; 
And  at  the  dawn  a  glistering  rime 

Is  silver'd  o'er  the  gaudy  leaves  ; 
When  hunters  leave  their  hill-side  camp, 

With  fleet  hound  some,  the  dun-deer  rousing, 

In  "  still-hunt "  some,  to  shoot  him  browsing  ; 
And  close  at  night  their  forest  tramp, 


52  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

Where  the  fat  yearling  scents  their  fire, 
And,  new  unto  their  murderous  ways, 

Affrighted,  feels  his  life  expire 
As  stupidly  he  stands  at  gaze, 

Where  that  wild  crew  sit  late  carousing. 

in. 
'Twas  in  the  mellow  autumn  time, 

When  I,  an  idler  from  the  town, 
With  gun  and  rod  was  lured  to  climb 
Those  peaks  where  fresh  the  HUDSON  takes 
His  tribute  from  an  hundred  lakes  ; 

Lakes  which  the  sun,  though  pouring  down 
His  mid-day  splendors  round  each  isle, 

At  eventide  so  soon  forsakes 
That  you  may  watch  his  fading  smile 

For  hours  around  those  summits  glow 
When  all  is  gray  and  chill  below  ; 
While,  in  that  brief  autumnal  day 
Still,  varying  all  in  feature,  they, 

Will  yet  some  wilding  beauty  show, 
As  through  their  watery  maze  you  stray. 

IV. 

For  he  beholds,  whose  footfalls  press 

The  mosses  of  that  wilderness, 
Each  charm  the  glorious  HUDSON  boasts 

Through  his  far-reaching  strand — 
When  sweeping  from  these  leafy  coasts, 


KACHESCO.  53 

His  mighty  march  he  seaward  takes — 
First  pictured  in  those  mountain  lakes, 

All  fresh  from  Nature's  hand  ! 
Lakes  broadly  flashing  to  the  sun, 

Like  warrior's  shield  when  first  display'd, 
Lakes,  dark,  as  when,  the  battle  done, 

That  shield  oft  blackens  in  the  glade. 
Round  one  that  on  the  eye  will  ope 

With  many  a  winding  sunny  reach, 
The  rising  hills  all  gently  slope 

From  turfy  bank  and  pebbled  beach. 
With  rocks  and  ragged  forests  bound, 

Deep  set  in  fir-clad  mountain  shade, 
You  trace  another,  where  resound 
The  echoes  of  the  hoarse  cascade. 

v. 

Aweary  with  a  day  of  toil, 
And  all  uncheer'd  with  hunter  spoil, 
Guiding  a  wet  and  sodden  boat, 

With  thing,  half  paddle,  half  an  oar, 
I  chanced,  one  murky  eve,  to  float 
Along  the  grim  and  ghastly  shore 

Of  such  wild  water ; 
Past  trees,  some  shooting  from  the  bank, 

With  dead  boughs  dipping  in  the  wave, 
And  some  with  trunks  moss-grown  and  dank, 
On  which  the  savage,  that  here  drank 
A  thousand  years  ago,  might  grave 
His  tale  of  slaughter. 


54  LAYS    O'F    THE    HUDSON. 


Peering  amid  these  mouldering  stems, 
Through  thickets  from  their  ruins  starting, 

To  spy  a  deer-track  if  I  could, 
I  saw  the  boughs  before  me  parting, 
Revealing  what  seemed  two  bright  gems 

Gleaming  from  out  the  dusky  wood  ; 
And  in  that  moment  on  the  shore, 
Just  where  I  brush' d  it  with  my  oar, 
An  aged  INDIAN  stood  I 

VII. 

Nay  !  shrink  not,  lady,  from  my  tale, 

Because,  erst  moved  by  border  story 
Thy  thoughtful  cheek  grew  still  more  pale 

At  images  so  dire  and  gory ; 
Nor  yet — grown  colder  since  that  day — 
Cry — half  disdainful  of  my  lay, 
"  An  INDIAN  ! — why,  in  theme  so  stale, 

There  can  be  no  new  interest !  can  there  ? — 
'Twas  but  some  border  vagrant  gazing 
From  thicket  that  your  boat  was  grazing, 

And  you — you  took  him  for  a  panther !" 

VIII. 

It  was  just  so,  and  nothing  more  ; 
The  deer-stand  that  I  sought  was  here, 
Here  too  Kachesco  came  for  deer  ; 


KACHESCO.  55 

A  civil  Indian,  seldom  drunk, 
Who  dragg'd  my  leaky  skiff  ashore, 

And  pointed  out  a  fallen  trunk, 
Where  sitting  I  could  spy  the  brink, 

Beneath  the  gently  tilting  branches, 
And  shoot  the  buck  that  came  to  drink 

Or  wash  the  black-flies  from  his  haunches. 
With  this  he  plunged  into  the  wood, 

Saying  he  on  the  "  run-way  "  knew 
Another  stand,  and  quite  as  good 

If  but  the  night  breeze  fairly  blew. 


So  there,  like  mummied  sagamore, 

I  crouch  with  senses  fairly  aching, 
To  catoh  each  sound  by  wood  or  shore 
Upon  the  twilight  stillness  breaking. 
I  start !  that  crash  of  leaves  below 
A  light  hoof  surdy  rattles  ?— No ! 

From  overhead  a  dry  branch  parted. 

A  plash !     'Tis  but  the  wavelet  tapping 
Yon  floating  log.     The  partridge  drums  ; 

With  thrilling  ears  again  I've  started  : 
The  booming  sound  at  distance  hums 
Like  rushing  herds.    I  start  as  though 

A  gang  of  moose  had  caught  me  napping. 
And  now  my  straining  sight  grows  dim 
While  nearer  yet  the  night-hawks  skim  ; 


56  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

Well,  "  let  the  hart  ungalled  play," 
I'll  think  of  sweet  looks  far  away. — 
But  no  !  I  list  and  gaze  about, 

My  rifle  to  my  shoulder  clapping 
At  leap  of  every  rascal  trout, 
Or  lotus  leaf  the  water  flapping. 


An  hour  went  thus,  without  a  sign 

Of  buck  or  doe  in  range  appearing ; 
The  wind  began  to  crisp  the  lake, 
The  wolf  to  howl  from  out  the  brake, 
And  I  to  think  that  boat  of  mine 

Had  better  soon  be  campward  steering  ; 
When  near  me  through  the  deepening  night 
Again  I  saw  those  eyes  so  bright, 

And  as  my  swarthy  friend  drew  nigher, 
I  heard  these  words  pronounced  in  tone, 
Lady,  as  silken  as  thine  own, 

"  White  man,  we'd  better  make  a  fire.  ' 


Our  kindling-stuff  lay  near  at  hand — 
Peelings  of  bark,  some  half  uncoil'd 
In  flakes,  from  boughs  by  age  despoil'd, 

And  some  in  shreds  by  rude  winds  torn  ; 
Dead  vines  that  round  the  dead  trees  clung  ; 
Long  moss  that  from  their  old  arms  swung, 
Tattei'd  and  stain'd — all  weather-worn, 


KACHESCO.  57 

Like  funeral  weeds  hung  out  to  dry, 
Or  banners  drooping  mournfully  ; — 

These  quickly  caught  the  spark  we  fann'd. 
Branches,  that  once  waved  over  head, 
Now  crisply  crackling  to  our  tread, 

Fed  next  the  greedy  flame's  demand. 
Lastly  a  fallen  trunk  or  two — 
Which  from  its  weedy  lair  we  drew, 
And  o'er  the  blazing  brushwood  threw— 

For  savory  broil  supplied  the  brand. 

XII. 

Of  hemlock  fir  we  made  our  couch, 
A  bed  for  cramps  and  colds  consoling  ; 

I  had  some  biscuit  in  my  pouch, 
A  salmon-trout  I'd  kill'd  in  trolling  ; 
My  comrade  had  some  venison  dried, 
And  com  in  bear's  lard  lately  fried  ; 

And  on  my  word,  I  will  avouch 
That  when  we  would  our  stock  divide 

In  equal  portions,  save  the  last, 
Apicius  could  not  deride 

The  relish  of  that  night's  repast. 

XIII. 

We  talk'd  that  night— 1  love  to  talk 

With  these  grown  children  of  the  wild, 

When  in  their  native  forest  walk, 
Confiding,  simple  as  a  child, 


58  L  AY  S    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

They  loose  at  times  that  sullen  mood 
Which  marks  the  wanderer  of  the  wood, 
And  in  that  pliant  hour  will  show 

As  prodigal  and  fresh  of  thought 
As  genius  when  its  feelings  flow 
In  words  by  feeling  only  taught. 

XIV. 

And  much  he  told  of  Metai*  lore  ; 

Of  WABENOS  we  call  enchanters  ; 
Of  water  sprites  called  Nebanai — 
In  floating  logs  oft  packed  away, 
As  much  at  home  on  every  shore 

As  other  "  spirits  "  in  decanters. 
From  him  I  learned  of  NABOZHOO, 

The  Harlequin  of  Indian  story  ; 
(A  kind  of  half  Deucalion,  too, 

Who  beats  the  Greek  one  in  his  glory ;) 
And  of  the  pigmy  WEENG,  whose  tap 

Upon  the  forehead,  near  one's  peepers, 
Will  make  the  liveliest  hunter  nap 

As  soundly  as  The  Seven  Sleepers  ; 
And  of  the  huge  WEENDIGO  race, 

(The  Cyclopes  of  Red-skin  fable,) 
Whose  housewives  for  their  breakfast  place 

A  whole  cooked  Indian  on  the  table. 

*  Wizard. — See  Notes  on  Indian  Mythology  at  the 
end  of  the  volume. 


KACHESCO.  59 

XV. 

Much  of  PA-PUCK- wis  too  he  said, 

The  urchin  god  of  fun  and  trickery, 
And  other  godlings  by  him  led, 
And  demons  dancing  on  the  head, 

As  supple  as  a  sapling  hickory. 
And  looking  toward  The  Milky  Way, 

Which  he  The  Path  of  Spirits  named, 
He  told  how  half  the  soul  would  stay 
Around  its  early  haunts  to  play, 

When  God  the  other  half  had  claimed ; 
And  how  all  living  Red  men  stand 
With  half  their  shade  in  shadow  land  ; 
And  how  all  Life  to  Red  men  known 
Once  walked  in  shapes  just  like  our  own  ;    . 
And  though  doomed  now  as  brutes  to  walk, 
How  Spirits  still  to  brutes  will  talk, 
And  whisper  blessed  words  of  cheer 
From  bush  or  tree  they're  browsing  near, 
Saying  that  none  at  last  shall  go 
Down  to  the  Fiend  MACHINETO. 

XVI. 

We  talk'd — 'twas  next  of  fish  and  game, 

Of  hunter  arts  to  strike  the  quarry, 
Of  portages  and  lakes  whose  name, 
As  utter' d  in  his  native  speech, 
If  memory  could  have  hoarded  each, 
A  portage-labor  'twere  to  carry. 


50  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

Yet  one  whose  length— it  is  a  score 
Of  miles  perhaps  in  length,  or  more — 

'Tis  glorious  to  troll, 
I  can  recall  the  name  and  feature 

From  dull  oblivion's  scathe, 
Partly  because  in  trim  canoe 
I  since  have  track'd  it  through  and  through, 
Partly  that  from  this  simple  creature 
I  heard  that  night  a  tale  of  faith 
Which  moved  my  very  soul. 

XVII. 

Yes,  INCA-PAH-CO  !  though  thy  name 
Has  never  flow'd  in  poet's  numbers, 

And  all  unknown,  thy  virgin  claim 
To  wild  and  matchless  beauty,  slumbers  ; 
Yet  memory's  pictures  all  must  fade 

Ere  I  forget  that  sunset  view 
When  issuing  first  from  darksome  glade 
A  day  of  storms  had  darker  made, 

Thy  floating  isles  and  mountains  blue, 
Thy  waters  sparkling  far  away 
Round  craggy  point  and  verdant  bay — 
The  point  with  dusky  cedars  crown'd, 
The  bay  with  beach  of  silver  bound — 

Upon  my  raptured  vision  grew. 
Grew  every  moment,  brighter,  fairer, 

As  I,  at  close  of  that  wild  day, 
Emerging  from  the  forest  nearer, 


KACHESCO.  61 

Saw  the  red  sun  his  glorious  path 

Cleave  through  the  storm-cloud's  dying  wrath, 

And  with  one  broad  triumphant  ray 
Upon  thy  crimson'd  waters  cast, 
Sink  warrior-like  to  rest  at  last. 


And  he  who  stands  as  then  I  stood 

By  INCA-PAH-CO'S  glorious  water, 
And  gazes  on  the  haunted  flood 
Where  long  ago  KACHESCO  wooed 

In  early  youth  its  Island  daughter, 
And  threads  that  island's  solitude, 

Once  witness  of  his  loved  one's  slaughter, 
At  that  same  season  of  the  leaf 
In  which  I  heard  him  tell  his  grief, 
Will  own,  'mid  autumn's  wildest  glory, 
The  wilder  tissue  of  that  story, 
And  feel — while  shuddering  at  the  view 
Which,  with  each  feature  stern  and  true, 
Of  his  relentless  race  he  drew — 
Feel  not  yet  wholly  waste  the  mind 
Where  Faith  so  deep  a  root  could  find  : 
Faith  which  hoth  love  and  life  could  save, 

And  keep  the  first,  in  age  still  fond, 
Yet  blossoming  this  side  the  grave, 

In  fadeless  trust  of  fruit  beyond  ! 


62  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 


Long  years  had  passed  when  7  thus  gazed, 
By  INCA-PAH-CO'S  beauty  dazed ; 
Long  years  and  many  a  distant  scene 
Of  tamer  life  had  come  between, 
Since  by  that  nameless  mountain  tarn 

I  realized,  a  stripling  stout, 

My  first  night's  fun  of  "  camping  out," 
And  listened  to  the  Indian  yam 

I  here  am  going  to  tell  about ; 
Whose  wampum  beads,  perchance  astray, 
Had  idly  slipped,  unstrung,  away — 
Save  now  in  coasting  that  bright  shore 

Where  INCA-PAH-CO'S  wavelets  chime, 
The  sounds  that  moved  my  soul  of  yore, 

The  scene  of  our  lone  bivouac 

Came,  each  and  all,  as  freshly  back, 

Beneath  the  crisp  October  prime, 
As  springs  by  matted  leaves  choked  up 
Which  brighten  in  the  hoof-stamped  cup, 

Upon  the  Caribou's  wild  track. 


Again  KACHESCO'S  face  of  truth 
I  saw  before  my  fancy  move, 

Fixed  as  the  memory  of  my  youth, 
And  sad  as  all  it  knew  of  love. 


KACHESCO.  63 

Again,  as  chillier  blew  the  blast, 
When  he  had  ceased  to  speak  that  night — 

While  I,  still  wakeful,  pondered  o'er 

His  wondrous  story  more  and  more — 
I  saw  him  moving  in  the  light 

The  fire  which  he  was  feeding,  cast ; 
Again  his  words  were  in  my  ear, 
As  I'll  repeat  them  simply  here, 

And  tell  the  tale  from  first  to  last. 

XXI. 

u  I  like  Lake  INCA-PAH-CO  well," 

Half  mused  aloud  my  wild-wood  friend  ; 
"  Why,  white  man,  I  can  hardly  tell ! 

For  fish  and  deer,  at  either  end 
The  rifts  are  good  ;  but  run- ways  more 
There  are  by  crooked  KILLOQUORE 
And  RACQUET  at  the  time  of  spearing, 
As  well  as  that  for  yarding  moose, 
Hath  both  enough  for  hunter's  use : 
Amid  these  hills  are  lakes  appearing 
More  limpid  to  the  Summer's  eye  ; 
In  some  at  night  the  stars  will  twinkle 

As  if  they  dropp'd  there  from  the  sky 
The  pebbled  bed  below  to  sprinkle  ; 
I  ply  my  paddle  in  them  all — 

Of  all  at  times,  a  home  have  made — 
Yet,  stranger,  when  Fve  thither  stray 'd 
I  seem'd  to  hear  the  ripples  fall 


64  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

Each  time  still  sweeter  than  before 
On  INCA-PAII-CO'S  winding  shore." 

XXII. 

There  was  a  sadness  in  his  tone 

His  careless  words  would  fain  disown  ; 

Or  rather  I  would  say  their  touch 

Of  mournfulness  betray'd  that  much, 

Much  more  of  deep  and  earnest  feeling 

Was  through  his  wither'd  bosom  stealing  : 

For  now  far  back  in  memory 

So  much  absorb'd  he  seem'd  to  be, 

I'd  not  molest  his  revery  ; 

And  when — in  phrase  I  now  forget — 

When  I  at  last  the  silence  broke, 
In  the  same  train  of  musing  yet, 

Watching  awhile  the  wreathed  smoke 
Curl  from  his  lighted  calumet, 

He  thus  aloud  half  pondering  spoke  : 

XXIII. 

"  Years,  years  ago,  when  life  was  new, 
And  long  before  there  was  a  clearing 
Among  these  ADIRONDAC  HIGHLANDS, 

My  sachefti  kept  his  best  canoe 
On  one  of  INCA-PAH-CO'S  islands — 
The  largest  which  lies  tow'rds  the  north, 
As  you  are  through  the  Narrows  veering — 
And  there  had  reared  his  wigwam  too. 


KACHESCO.  65 

A  trapper  now,  with  years  o'erladen, 

He  lived  there  with  one  only  daughter, 
A  gentle  but  still  gamesome  maiden, 
Who,  I  have  heard,  would  venture  forth, 
Venture  upon  the  darkest  night 

Across  the  broad  and  gusty  water 
To  climb  that  cliff  upon  the  main, 

By  some  since  call'd  THE  MAIDEN'S  REST, 
That  foot  save  hers  hath  never  press'd, 
And  watch  the  camp-fire's  distant  light, 
Which  told  that  she  should  see  again 
Her  hunter  when  the  dawn  was  bright." 


He  paused— look'd  down,  then  stirr'd  the  fire, 

He  smiled — I  did  not  like  that  smile, 
As  leaning  on  his  elbow  nigher 
His  bright  eyes  glared  in  mine  the  while. 
And  I  was  glad  that  scrutiny  o'er, 
When  neither  had  misgivings  more, 
While  he,  in  earnest  now  at  last, 
Re  veal' d  his  memories  of  the  past. 

XXV. 

"  White  man,  thy  look  is  open,  kind, 
Thou  scornest  not  a  tale  of  truth  ! 

Should  I  in  thee  a  mocker  find, 

'Twould  shame  alike  thy  blood  and  youth. 


66  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

I  trust  thee  !  well,  now  look  upon 

This  wither'd  cheek  and  shrunken  form  ! 

Canst  think,  young  man,  /  was  the  one 

For  whom  that  maiden  dared  the  storm  ? 
Yes,  often,  till  a  tribesman  came — 
It  matters  not  to  speak  his  name — 
A  youth  as  tall,  as  straight  as  I, 
As  quick  his  quarry  to  descry, 
A  hunter  bold  upon  his  prey 
As  ever  struck  the  elk  at  bay. 
— But  thou  shalt  see  him,  if  thou  wilt 
Gaze  on  the  wreck  since  made  by  guilt.—- 

Where  glints  its  crag-drip  to  the  moon , 

And  raves  through  soaking  moss  the  Scroon, 

To  where  Peseco's  waters  lave 
Its  shining  strand  and  beach-clad  hills, 

From  hoarse  Ausable's  caverned  wave 
To  Saranac's  most  northern  rills — 

These  woods  around,  do  they  not  know 

That  doomed  one's  guilt,  my  sleepless  woe  ? 
Know  it  in  every  glen  and  glade 
Of  Adirondac's  haunted  shade, 

Where  branches  bend  or  waters  flow  ! 


"  Oft  in  that  barren  hollow,  where 
Through  moss-hung  hemlocks  blasted,  there 
Whirl  the  dark  rapids  of  Yowhayle  ; 


KACHESCO.  67 

Oft,  too,  by  Teoratie  blue, 

And  where  the  silent  wave  that  slides 
Tessuya's  cedar  islets  through, 
Cahogaronta's  cliff  divides 

In  foam  through  deep  Kurloonah's  vale — 
Where  great  Tahawus  splits  the  sky. 

Where  Borrhas  greets  his  melting  snows, 
By  those  linked  lakes  that  shining  lie 

Where  Metauk's  whispering  forest  grows — 
From  Nessingh's  sluggish  waters,  red 
With  alder  roots  that  line  their  bed, 
To  where,  through  many  a  grassy  vlie, 

The  winding  Atatea  flows ; 
And  from  Oukorla's  glistening  eye 
To  hoary  Wahopartenie, 
As  still  from  spot  to  spot  we  fled, 
How  often  his  despairing  sigh, 
How  oft  his  hoarse,  half-muttered  cry 
The  very  air  has  thickened 
On  which  his  fruitless  prayer  was  sped ! 
Where  naked  Oun-owarlah  towers  ; 

Where  Sandanona's  shadows  float ; 
Where  wind-swept  Nodoneyo  lowers, 

And  in  that  gorge's  quaking  throat, 
Reft  by  OTNEYARH'S  giant  band, 
Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  vast, 
Though  lashed  by  cable  roots,  aghast, 
Toppling  amid  their  ruin,  stand  ; 
Through  Reuna's  nundred  isles  of  green, 


o       

68  LAYS     OF    THE    HUDSON. 

By  Onegora's  pebbly  pools  ; 
Where  Paskungamah's  birches  lean, 
And  where,  through  many  a  dark  ravine, 
The  triple  crown  of  crags  is  seen 

By  which  grim  Towaloondah  rules — 
By  Gwi-endauqua's  bristling  fall, 

Through  Twen-ungasko's  echoing  glen, 

To  wild  Ouluska's  inmost  den, 
Alone — alone  with  that  poor  thrall, 
I  wrestled  life  away  in  all !" 

XXVII. 

Breathless,  he  paused,  while  vaguely  stirred 

By  theme,  as  yet,  all  dark  to  me, 
I  thrilled  beneath  each  savage  word 

That  from  his  throat  came  savagely. 
But  now  some  softer  memories  make 

That  tawny  bosom  heave  and  swell, 
As,  gazing  far  into  the  night, 
He  rivets  there  his  aching  sight, 
Nor  will  again  his  tale  forsake, 

Till  there's  no  more  to  tell. 


KACIIESCO. 


PART  II.— THE  VIGIL  OF  FAITH. 


"  BRIGHT  NULKAH,  doe-eyed  forest  girl ! 

Oh  !  still  in  dreams  those  evening  skies 
Bend  over  me  as  soft  as  when, 
Born  to  a  faith  first  plighted  then, 

We  silent  sought  each  other's  eyes 

To  read  their  spirit  mysteries  : 

Then  watched  the  lake's  low  ripples  curl, 

Then  sought  each  other's  eyes  again, 

Then  looked  around  on  crag  and  hill, 

Looked  on  each  shadowy  tree  so  still, 

Looked  on  them  each  and  all  to  see 

All — all  was  real,  Earth — Love  and  WE. 


"  I  round  her  neck  the  wampum  threw, 
String  after  string  she  kissed  them  each, 

And  parting  at  the  water's  edge 
When  I  had  launched  my  light  canoe, 
Unwilling  yet  to  leave  the  beach, 
But  poised  upon  a  fallen  tree 
I  long  could  see  the  holy  pledge, 


70  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

Pressed  to  her  heart  or  waved  to  me : 
Could  see  it  glimmer  in  the  dew 

Yet — yet  again  from  rocky  ledge, 
When,  after  the  first  head-land  cast 
My  boat  in  shadow  as  I  pass'd, 
Again  across  the  moonlit  bay, 
She  saw  my  glistening  paddle  play 
And  gave  me  back  one  answering  ray. 


"  Ah  !  bounding  then  the  broad  lake  over, 

What  vigor  to  my  arm  love  gave  ! 
What  life,  fresh  life  to  every  wave, 

That  buoy'd  up  my  NULKAH'S  lover! 
And  sadly  as  she  left  me  there, 
How  much  of  sweetness  was  to  spare 
For  her  who  soon  would  climb  the  cliff, 
To  vainly  watch  my  coming  skiff, 

Would  toiling  gain  the  rugged  height, 
To  suffer  all  love's  sadness  where 

It  came  unmixed  with  love's  delight 
And  seemed  the  herald  of  Despair ! 

IV. 

"  I  sent  to  her — I  sent  a  friend. 
The  chosen  one  of  all  our  band 

Wkh  whom  my  heart  was  wont  to  blend 
Like  those  which  mate  in  spirit  land. 


KACHESCO.  71 

From  SACANDAGA'S  fountain  head 

Where  in  our  camp  I  fevered  lay, 
Through  NUSHIONA'S  vale  he  sped, 

And  gained  her  home  at  close  of  day. 
Beside  her  father's  fire  he  slept— 

It  was  too  late  to  speak  that  night, 
And  when  my  NULKAH'S  beauty  first 
Upon  him  with  the  morning  burst, 

He  had  no  tongue  to  speak  aright 
And  still  my  message  from  her  kept — 

Kept  back  love's  message  day  by  day 

Till  sullen  weeks  had  worn  away 
While  lonely  NULKAH  often  wept. 


"  Nay,  more,  when  she  would  cross  the  wave 

At  midnight  in  the  wildest  weather, 
While  tempests  round  the  peak  would  rave, 

From  which  she  watch'd'for  nights  together, 
He  told— that  tribesman  whom  I  loved, 

Yes,  loved  as  if  he  were  my  brother — 
He  told  her  that  the  woods  I  roved 

To  feed  the  lodge  where  dwelt  another : 
Another  who  now  cherish'd  there 
The  child  that  claim' d  a  hunter's  care  ; 
Claim'd  it  upon  some  distant  shore, 
From  which  I  would  return  no  more. 


72  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 


"  All  this  in  her  had  wrought  no  change 

No  anxious  doubt,  no  jealous  fear, 
But  he,  meanwhile,  had  words  most  strange, 

Breathed  in  my  gentle  NULKAH'S  ear, 

Which  made  her  wish  that  I  were  near: 
Words  strange  to  her,  who,  simple,  true, 
And  only  love  as  prosperous  knew, 

Shrank  from  the  fitful  fantasy, 
Which  seeming  less  like  love  than  hate, 

Would  cloud  his  moody  brow  when  he, 
Gazing  on  her  arraigned  the  fate 
Which  could  such  loveliness  create 

Only  to  work  him  misery. 
And  when  she  heard  that  lying  tale, 

Her  woman's  heart  could  soon  discover 
Some  double  treachery  might  assail, 

Through  him,  her  unsuspecting  lover ; 
And  Love  in  fear,  still  fearless,  brought  her 
On  errand  Love  in  hope  first  taught  her. 

VII. 

"  I  came  at  last.     She  ask'd  me  nought — 

It  was  enough  to  see  me  there  ; 
But  of  the  friend  who  thus  had  wrought, 
Though  he  now  streams  far  distant  sought, 

She  bade  me  in  the  woods  beware. 
A  wound  my  coming  had  delay'd, 


KACHESCO.  73 

And,  still  too  weak  to  use  my  gun, 
I  set  the  nets  the  old  chief  made  ; 
Baited  his  traps  in  forest  glade  ; 
And  sweetly  after  woo'd  the  maid. 
At  evening  when  my  toils  were  done. 


"  'Twas  then  I  chose  a  grassy  swale, 

In  which  my  wigwam  frame  to  make ; 

Shelter'd  by  crags  from  northern  gale, 

Shaded  by  boughs,  save  toward  the  lake. 
The  RED-BIRD'S  nest  above  it  swung ; 
There  often  the  MA-MA-TWA  sung  ; 
And  MONING-GWUNA'S  quills  of  gold 
Through  leaves  like  flickering  sunshine  told  ; 
There  too,  when  Spring  was  backward,  first, 
Her  shrinking  blossoms  safely  burst ; 
And  there,  when  autumn  leaf  was  sere, 
Some  flowers  still  stay'd  the  loitering  year. 


"  She  learn'd  full  soon  to  love  the  spot, 
For  who  could  see  and  love  it  not  ? 
Why,  Morning  there  had  newer  splendor, 
There,  Twilight  seemed  to  grow  more  tender 
And  Moonbeams  first  would  thither  stray, 
To  light  PUCKWUDJE»ES  to  their  play. 


74  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

And  there,  when  I  the  isle  would  leave, 

And  sometimes  now  my  gun  resume, 
She'd  shyly  steal  the  mats  to  weave 

Which  were  to  line  our  bridal  room. 
Happy  we  were !  what  love  like  ours, 

Blossoming  thus  as  fresh  and  free, 
As  unrestrain'd  as  wild-wood  flowers, 

Yet  keeping  all  their  purity  ! 


"  Happy  we  were  !   my  secret  foe, 
How  dread  a  foe,  I  knew  not  then, 

Remain'd  to  fish  the  streams  below 

That  into  CADARAQUI  flow, 
Returning  to  us  only  when 
Some  kinsmen  on  our  bridal  morn, 
Impell'd  by  a  mysterious  doom 
Which  with  that  fateful  man  was  born, 

Brought  him  to  shroud  the  day  in  gloom 
And  blast  our  joys  about  to  bloom. 


"  Just  MANITOU  !  O  may  the  boat 
That  bears  him  to  the  spirit  land, 

For  ages  on  those  black  waves  float 

Which  catch  no  light  from  off  its  strand, 

Float  blindly  there,  still  laboring  on 

Toward  shores  tis  never  doom'd  to  reach  ; 


K  A  C  H  E  S  C  O  .  75 

Float  there  till  time  itself  is  gone, 

And  when  again  'twould  seek  the  beach 

From  which  with  that  lone  soul  it  started, 
Baffling  let  that  before  it  flee, 

Till  hope  of  res*  hath  all  departed, 
And  still  when  that  last  hope  is  gone, 
A  guideless  thing,  float  on,  float  on  ! 

XII. 

"  The  birds  of  song  had  sunk  to  rest ; 

The  eagle's  tireless  wing  was  furl'd  ; 
On  INCA-PAH-CO'S  darkening  breast 

The  last  few  golden  ripples  curl'd  ; 
The  distant  mountains  bright  before, 
Now  seem'd  to  darken  more  and  more 

Against  the  eastern  sky  ; 
Until  a  white  pine's  slender  cone, 
Tapering  above  the  hill-top,  shone, 

And  show'd  the  moon  was  nigh. 
Our  friends,  they  all  stood  gravely  round 
Waiting  until  that  moon  should  rise, 
The  bridal  moon  whose  aspect  crown'd, 

For  good  or  ill,  our  destinies  : 
The  signal  too,  the  hour  had  come, 
When  I  could  claim  my  bride  and  home. 

XIII. 

"  Blushing  at  that  fast-brightening  sky, 
When  on  her  father's  lodge  it  shone, 


76  LAYS    OF    Til  E    HUDSON. 

How  did  she  shrink  within,  when  I 

Would  lead  that  loved  one  to  my  own  ! 
Forth  stepp'd  e'en  then  that  dismal  guest 
Who  grimly  stood  amid  the  rest, 

And,  while  his  knife  he  drew, 
With  cry  that  made  us  all  aghast, 
And  frantic  gesture  hurrying  past, 
He  sprang  the  threshold  through. 

XIV. 

"  A  shriek  !  and  I  with  soul  of  flame 

Devour'd  the  fearful  space  between  : 
Another  and  another  came 
E'en  while  my  grip  was  on  his  throat, 

Where,  writhing  in  the  dark  unseen, 
His  victim  in  her  gore  did  float ! 
And  life  was  oozing  through  each  wound 

That  gash'd  her  lovely  form  about, 
When  hurling  him  upon  the  ground, 

I  bore  her  to  the  light  without. 

xv. 
"  Aided  by  that  untimely  beam, 

Wh*ch  harbinger 'd  such  bridal  woes, 
I  watch'd  its  ebbing  current  gleam, 
And,  watching,  would  not,  could  not  deem 
That  blessed  life's  too  precious  stream 
Growing  each  moment  darker,  colder, 
E'en  while  I  to  my  heart  did  fold  her, 


KACHKSCO.  77 

Already  at  its  close. 

She  tried  to  speak— then  press'd  my  hand, 
And  look' d— oh,  look'd  into  my  eyes 
As  if  through  them  the  spirit-land 

Would  first  upon  her  vision  rise  ; 
As  if  her  soul  that  could  not  stay, 
Through  mine  might  only  pass  away. 

XVI. 

"  I  know  not  when  that  look  did  fade, 

Nor  when  did  fail  that  dying  grasp, 
Nor  how  they  loosed  the  lifeless  maid, 

Stiffening  within  love's  desperate  clasp. 
The  sod  upon  her  grave  was  green, 

The  leaflet  greening  on  the  oak, 
The  autumn  and  the  winter  o'er, 

When  I  once  more  to  sense  awoke,— 
Awoke  to  know  some  joys  had  been 

Which  now  to  me  could  be  no  more  ; 
Awoke  to  know  that  life  to  me 
Was  henceforth  but  a  girdled  tree 
Whose  tough  limbs  still  must  bide  the  blast 
Until  the  trunk  to  earth  be  cast, 
Though  fruit  nor  blossom  ne'er  can  smile 
Upon  those  wrestling  limbs  the  while. 


'  He  still  was  there,  that  youth  accurst, 

Who  thus  through  blood  his  end  had  sought, 


78  L  AY  S    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

He  who,  with  frenzied  love  athirst, 

Snch  wreck  of  loveliness  had  wrought. 

He  still  was  there,  for  while  I  breathed, 
With  sense  and  feeling  almost  gone — 

The  aged  father,  thus  bereaved, 

Raving  the  wretch  should  still  live  on — 
Of  all  our  friends  there  was  not  one 

Would  deal  the  vengeance  they  believed 
'Twas  mine  on  him  to  wreak  alone. 

XVIII. 

"  He  still  was  there.     'Twas  he  that  kept 
A  nurse's  watch  while  thus  I  slept : 

Ever  and  ever  by  my  side, 
With  anxious  eye  and  noiseless  tread, 
Hanging  about  my  fever'd  bed, 

With  none  he  would  his  task  divide  ; 
Trembling,  with  jealous  fear  afraid, 

When  near  the  grave  I  seem'd  to  hover, 
Lest  that  bright  land  which  claim'd  the  maid 

Was  opening  too  upon  her  lover. 

XIX. 

"  And  now,  when  no  more  languishing, 

My  mind  and  strength  became  renew'd, 
Amid  the  balmy  airs  of  spring, 

And  I  once  more  could  take  the  wood  ; 
Think  you  he  fear'd  the  bloody  fate 
Which  blood  will  alway  expiate  ? 


o-  - 

KACHESCO.  79 

Oh,  no  !  he  look'd  too  far  before — 
Look'd  far  beyond  this  fleeting  shore, 
Where  bliss  will  die  as  soon  as  born  ! 
He  hoped,  he  blindly  trusted,  he, 

That  on  the  instant  that  I  woke, 
Revenge  would  be  so  fierce  in  me, 

I'd  madly  deal  some  deathful  stroke 
Would  send  his  soul  where  hers  was  gone  ! 

xx. 

"  But  I — I  knew  too  well  his  guile, 
'Twas  whisper'd  me  in  dreams  the  while, 
I  saw  a  form  about  my  bed, 
That  alway  shrunk  from  him  with  dread  : 
'Twould  come  by  night,  'twould  come  by  day, 
But  clearest  in  the  moonbeam  show, 
Then  ever,  as  it  nearer  drew 
Ere  melting  from  my  wistful  view, 
With  palm  reversed  it  seem'd  to  say, 

'  If  yet  thou  wilt  not  with  me  go, 
Keep  him — Oh  keep  but  him  away  I1 

XXI. 

"  And  did  I  not  ?  ay,  while  the  knell 
Of  youth  and  hope  yet  echo'd  by, 
Did  I  not  then  allay  thy  fears, 
Perturbed  soul,  that  his  was  nigh  ? 

And  o'er  the  waste  of  dreary  years, 
On  which,  heart-wither'd  doom'd  to  dwell, 


JO  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

I  look  with  weary  vision  back — 
Have  I  not  on  that  desert  track, 
Sweet  spirit,  kept  love's  vigil  well  ? 

Oh  have  I  not  ?    Yes — though  no  more 
I  see  at  night  those  moon-touch'd  fingers, 
Still  beckoning  as  they  did  of  yore  ; 

And  though  the  features  of  my  love, 
As  near  me  still  in  dreams  she  lingers, 

Look  bright,  as  yon  bright  star  above, 
And,  peaceful,  as  in  that  blest  time, 
When  our  young  loves  were  in  their  prime — 
I  know  that  from  the  land  of  shades, 
When  wandering  thus  to  haunt  these  glades, 
The  vigil  to  her  soul  is  dear 
I  kept,  and  still  am  keeping  here  ! 
— Enough  of  this,  thou  still  wouldst  know 
How  dealt  I  with  my  mortal  foe. 


"  The  stag  that  snuffs  the  breeze  of  morn, 

Where  first  it  lifts  the  birchen  spray, 
Gazing  on  lakes  all  newly  born 

From  valley  mists  that  roll  away, 
Treads  not  the  upland  fern  more  free, 

Looks  not  with  eye  more  bright  below, 
Than  moved  and  look'd  that  man,  when  he 
Strode  forth  and  stood  beneath  the  tree 

To  bide  my  avenging  hatchet's  blow  : 


KACHESCO.  81 

The  crestless  doe,  whose  faint  limbs  sink 

Beside  the  rill  to  which  they  bore  her— 
Life-stricken  on  its  very  brink 
That  instant  when  she'd  gasping  drink 

From  the  bright  wave  that  leaps  before  her- 
Lies  not  more  lowly  and  forlorn, 

All  stretch'd  upon,  the  forest  leaves, 
Than  near  the  tree  that  Outcast  lay, 
When,  by  my  gleaming  hatchet  shorn, 
His  warrior-tuft  is  cleft  away, 

And  he  the  living  doom  receives 
To  wande.r  thus  where'er  he  may — 
Of  woman  and  of  man  the  scorn  ! 


"  A  month  went  by  ;  the  wigwam-smoke 

No  more  from  that  cold  hearth  ascended, 
Where  the  old  chief  no  longer  woke 

To  woes  that  with  his  life  were  endted  : 
A  month,  and  that  deserted  isle 

Was  left  alone  to  me  and  her ! 
The  summer  had  begun  to  smile, 

The  winds  of  June  the  leaves  to  stir ; 
And  flowers  that  budded  late  the  while, 

To  bloom  above  her  sepulchre  : 
Meek,  pallid  things,  grave-nurseA  beJow, 
That  feebly  there  as  yet  would  grow, 
Brighter  in  coming  years  to  blow — 


82  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

And  where  was  he  whose  fell  despair 
The  Flower  of  Love  laid  bleeding  there  ? 


"  Shooting  from  out  the  leafy  land, 

Right  opposite  our  island  home, 
There  was  a  narrow  neek  of  sand, 
O'er  which  the  wave  on  either  hand, 

Would  fling  at  times  its  crest  of  foam. 
And  here — as  I  one  morning  stood 

Upon  a  rock  which  faced  that  beacfl — 
I  saw,  wild  rushing  from  the  wood, 

Within  my  loaded  rifle's  reach, 
A  figure  that  distracted  ran 

Until  it  gain'd  the  frothy  marge, 
And  there,  an  unarm'd,  kneeling  man, 

Bare  his  broad  bosom  to  my  charge ! 


"  I  stood,  but  did  not  raise  the  gun — 
Although  it  rattled  in  my  grasp — 
I  stood  and  coldly  look'd  upon 

The  suppliant,  who  still  lower  bent, 

His  hands  in  agony  did  clasp, 

As  if  the  soil  within  him  pent 

Would  rend  its  penal  tenement. 

At  last,  with  low  half  smother'd  cry 

0 ' 


KACHESCO.  83 

And  quivering  frame,  he  gain'd  his  feet, 
And  to  the  woods  began  to  fly, 

Growing  at  every  step  more  fleet : 
But  from  that  hour  where'er  he  fled, 
There  too  my  shadow  darkened ! 


"  One  moment  was  enough  to  bind 

Firmly  my  weapons  on  my  head, 
The  strait  was  swum,  and  far  behind 

The  crested  waves  effaced  my  tread 
Upon  the  beach,  o'er  which  I  sped 
So  swiftly  that  the  forest  glade 
At  once  the  wanderer's  trail  betray'd  ; 
And  though  it  led  o'er  rocky  ledge, 
Led  oft  within  the  pool's  black  edge, 

'Twas  soon  reveal'd  anew — 
The  springy  moss  just  crisping  back, 
I  saw  upon  his  recent  track, 
Nor  paused  to  trace  it  in  the  brook, 
Whose  alders  still  behind  him  shook 
Where  he  had  bounded  through. 


"  And — when  again  the  stream  he  cross'd, 
Where  in  its  forks,  awhile  I  lost 
His  trail  amid  the  maze 


84  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

Of  severing  rills,  and  run-ways  wound 
About  the  deer-lick's  trampled  ground — 
The  very  living  things  around, 
Which  in  these  forest-depths  abound, 
The  sable  darting  from  the  fern, 
The  gliding  ermine — each  in  turn 

His  whereabout  betrays : 
From  plunging  beaver's  warning  stroke 
From  wood-duck  whirring  from  the  oak, 
And  screaming  loon,  alike  I  learn 

Where  lead  the  wanderer's  ways. 


"  At  length  within  a  broken  dell, 
Where  a  gnarl'd  beach  the  tempest  shock 
Had  parted  from  the  leaning  rock, 
Among  its  cable  roots,  he  fell ; 

Where,  panting,  soon  I  saw  him  lie, 
Shrivelling  against  the  blasted  trunk 

With  knees  drawn  up  and  cowering  eye, 
As  if  my  avenging  tread  had  shrunk 

The  miscreant  there  as  I  drew  nigh. 
I  spoke  not — but  I  gazed  upon 
That  wolf  with  fangs  and  courage  gone, 
Gazed  on  his  quailing  features  till 

Their  furtive  glance  was  fix'd  by  mine, 
And  I  could  see  his  writhing  will 

Her  feeble  throne  to  me  resign. 


KACHKSCO.  85 


"  He  rose,  an  abject,  broken  man, 
He  dared  not  fight— he  dared  not  fly ; 

His  very  life  in  my  veins  ran, 
Who  would  not  let  him  cast  it  by  ! 
And  still  he  is  the  thing  that  then 
He  wilted  to,  within  that  glen : 

Living — if  life  be  drawing  breath— 
But  dead  in  all  that  last  should  die, 

For  him  there  is  no  further  death 
Till  from  the  earth  he  withereth. 

XXX. 

"  I  hunt  for  him — I  dress  his  food, 
I  guide  his  footsteps  in  the  wood, 

Or,  when  alone  for  game  I'd  beat, 

Direct  where  we  at  night  shall  meet. 

He  cleans  my  arms — my  snow-shoes  makes  ; 

He  bales  my  shallop  on  the  lakes  ; 

And  when  with  fishing  spear  I  glide 

At  midnight  o'er  the  silent  tide, 

'Tis  he  who  holds  the  pine-knot  torch, 
That  seems  her  blazing  path  to  scorch 

Where  waves  o'er  reddening  shoals  divide. 

XXXI. 

"  With  me  he  now  is  alway  meek, 

But  sometimes,  chafing  in  his  thrall, 


*6  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

He  to  my  dog  will  sharply  speak, 

Who  comes,  or  comes  not  at  his  call. 

They  both  are  in  my  camp  below, 

From  which  I  now  in  hunting  weather 

For  days  can  often  safely  go, 

Leaving  the  two  alone  together. 

But  in  those  years  my  watch  began 
His  limbs  were  agile  as  my  own, 

And  sometimes  then  the  tortured  man 

For  weeks  beyond  my  search  hath  flown, 
In  shades  more  deep  to  breathe  alone. 

XXXII. 

"  But  ever  when  he  thus  would  flee, 

Flee  from  himself  as  well  as  me, 

Some  hollow  trunk  or  swampy  lair 

Betrayed  his  howlings  of  despair, 

As  near  the  she-wolf  ceased  her  moan 

To  listen  to  his  dreaming  groan, 

Or,  scared  from  perch  on  dead  branch  by, 

The  fish-hawk  caught  his  sharper  cry, 

When  light  that  waked  from  seeming  pain 

Brought  back  the  living  sense  again. 

And  sometimes  then  with  strange  dismay, 

Flinging  a  frantic  look  around, 
He  from  the  "  windfall's  "  ghastly  fray 

Of  uptorn  trunks  would  shrieking  bound 
As  if  from  their  convulsion  grew 
Some  shape  to  his  distracted  view, 


KACHESCO.  87 

Some  hideous  shape  his  soul  first  caugb 
From  havoc  there  by  Nature  wrought ! 
Then  shivering  in  each  limb  with  dread 
As  o'er  the  quaking  bog  he  fled, 
And,  flying  toward  it,  still  afraid 
To  reach  again  the  forest  shade, 
He  joyed  that  even  I  was  near 
To  soothe  him  in  his  mortal  fear. 


"  Again,  when  in  his  wildest  mood, 

He  would  some  mystic  power  obey, 
Which  from  that  island's  haunted  wood 

Ne'er  let  him  wander  far  away, 
And  alway  soon  or  late  I  could 
Steal  on  him  in  his  solitude  : 
While  oft,  as  weaker  grew  his  brain, 

And  he  forgot  God's  law  of  blood, 
I've  track'd  the  poor  bewilder'd  thing, 
Wherever  he  was  famishing  ; 
And  snatched  him  o'er  and  o'er  again, 

From  death  he  sought  by  fell  and  flood. 


*  Sometimes,  when  wintry  snows  were  deep, 
And  game  was  scarce  within  our  range, 

When  near  our  camp  'twere  death  to  keep, 
Yet  lacked  we  strength  our  camp  to  change 


LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

Compelled,  in  search  of  food,  to  creep 

Through  smothering  drift  and  snowy  surge, 
We'd  starving  sink  in  snow  to  sleep, 

Through  sleet  the  morrow  to  emerge — 
My  arms  around  him  I  would  bind, 
To  shield  him  from  the  wintry  wind  , 
And  still  his  hand  close  clutching,  hold 

When  through  the  morrow's  whirling  blast 
Our  languid  steps  were  tottering  told, 

Where  ice  some  dizzy  ledge  had  glass'd, 
And  reeling  'neath  the  tempest's  breath, 
Our  pinch 'd-up  limbs  trod  near  to  death. 
Then,  lest  his  soul  should  slip  away 
That  night  from  his  half-torpid  clay, 

I'd  warm  against  my  breast  his  feet, 
And  constant  wake  to  feel  if  heat 
Of  life  still  in  his  pulses  beat. 

xxxv. 

"  And  when  spring  thaws  dissolved  the  snow, 

And,  loosened  from  their  ancient  stay, 
In  mass,  dissevered  at  a  blow, 
Old  trees  and  root-inwoven  ground 
With  rocks  and  ice  together  bound, 

Would  plunging  crash  their  headlong  way, 
And  scatter  waste  and  ruin  wide 
Far  down  the  mountain's  riven  side — 
As  then  our  wild- wood  track  would  go 
Across  the  swollen  torrent's  flow, 


KACHESCO.  89 

Often,  ere  this,  my  frail  canoe 

Upon  the  freshet's  foam  has  toss'd, 
Where  splintered  ice  would  thunder  through 

The  roaring  gulf  which  I  have  crossed 
To  bridge  for  him  the  tide  below. 
And  ever  then  my  voice  has  lent 

Fresh  vigor  to  his  trembling  knee, 
As  shrinking  he  before  me  went, 
Appalled  to  hear  the  surges  hiss 

So  close  beneath  the  slippery  tree, 
That  tottering  spanned  the  dread  abyss. 

xxxvi. 

"  When  summer  drought  has  parched  the  ground, 
And  crisped  the  dusty  leaves  around, 

Encircled  by  the  forest  fire, 
And  gasping  in  its  blinding  smoke, 

My  bleeding  way  through  walls  of  brier, 
Half  stifled,  I  have  desperate  broke, 

And  dragged  him  to  some  lonely  peak, 
Where  o'er  his  prostrate  form  I  stood, 
And  watched  the  Flaming  Spirit  wreak 

His  wrath  each  moment  nigher — nigher — 
Have  watched  him  whirling  through  the  wood, 

Resistless  in  each  angry  coil, 
Now  scorching  up  the  brush  beneath, 
Shrivelling  alike  both  root  and  soil, 
Now  fastening  on  some  hoary  pine, 
And  vomiting  his  burning  breath 


90  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

On  writhing  limbs  through  which  he'd  twine 
Darting  aloft  his  crimson  tongue 
The  sharply  crackling  boughs  among, 
Until  the  crag  round  which  he  swept, 
The  crag  where  our  last  hold  we  kept, 
One  blazing  pyre  of  light  became, 
An  islet  in  a  sea  of  flame. 
There,  bending  oft  that  faint  wretch  over — 
His  body  with  my  own  to  cover — 
There,  while  the  moss  whereon  he  lay 
In  blistered  flakes  would  peal  away, 
Between  him  and  the  flames  I  cast 
My  form,  until  the  peril  passed. 

XXXVII. 

"  And  thus  as  crowding  seasons  changed, 
When  many  a  year  was  dead  and  gone, 
I  round  these  lakes  in  manhood  ranged, 
Where  yet  in  age  I  wander  on, 
And  still  o'er  that  poor  slave  I've  kept 
A  vigil  that  hath  never  slept ; 
And  while  upon  this  earth  I  stay, 
From  her  I'll  still  keep  him  away — 
From  her  whom  I  at  last  shall  see 
My  own,  my  own  eternally  ! 

XXXVIII. 

"  White  man  !  I  say  not  that  they  lie 

Who  preach  a  faith  so  dark  and  drear 


KA.CHESCO.  9] 

That  wedded  hearts  in  yon  cold  sky 

Meet  not  as  they  were  mated  here. 
But  scorning  not  thy  faith,  thou  must, 
Stranger,  in  mine  have  equal  trust : 
The  Red  man's  faith  by  Him  implanted, 
Who  souls  to  both  our  races  granted. 
Thou  know'st  in  life  we  mingle  not, 
Death  cannot  change  our  different  lot ! 
He  who  hath  placed  the  White  man's  heaven 
Where  hymns  on  vapory  clouds  are  chanted, 

To  harps  by  angel  fingers  play'd  ; 
Not  less  on  his  Red  children  smiles 
To  whom  a  land  of  souls  is  given, 

Where  in  the  ruddy  west  array'd 
Brighten  our  blessed  hunting  isles. 


"  There  souls  again  to  youth  are  born, 
A  youth  that  knows  no  withering  ! 
There,  blithe  and  bland  the  breeze  of  morn 

Fresheneth  an  eternal  Spring 
'Mid  trees,  and  flowers,  and  waterfalls, 
And  fountains  bubbling  from  the  moss, 
And  leaves  that  quiver  with  delight, 
As  from  their  shade  the  warbler  calls, 
Or  choiring,  glances  to  the  light 
On  wings  which  never  lose  their  gloss  : 
There  brooks  that  bear  their  buds  away, 


12  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

From  branches  that  will  bend  above  them, 
So  closely  they  could  not  but  love  them, 
To  the  same  bowers  again  will  stray 

From  which  at  first  they  murmuring  sever, 
Still  floating  back  their  blossoms  to  them, 

Still  with  the  same  sweet  music  ever, 
Returning  yet  once  more  to  woo  them  ; 
There  love,  like  bird  and  brook  and  blossom, 
Is  young  forever  in  each  bosom  ! 

XL. 
"  Those  blissful  ISLANDS  OF  THE  WEST  : 

I've  seen,  myself,  at  sunset  time, 
The  golden  lake  in  which  they  rest ; 
Seen  too,  the  barks  that  bear  The  Blest 
Floating  toward  that  fadeless  clime  : 
First  dark,  just  as  they  leave  our  shore, 
Their  sides  then  brightening  more  and  more, 
Till  in  a  flood  of  crimson  light 
They  melted  from  my  straining  sight. 
And  she,  who  climb'd  the  storm-swept  steep, 

She  who  the  foaming  wave  would  dare, 
So  oft  love's  vigil  here  to  keep, 

Stanger,  albeit  thou  think'st  I  dote, 

I  know,  I  know  she  watches  there  ! 
Watches  upon  that  radiant  strand, 

Watches  to  see  her  lo  ver's  boat 
Approach  The  Spirit-Land." 


THE   BOB-0-LINKUM. 


THOU  vocal  sprite — thou  feather'd  troubadour  ! 

In  pilgrim  weeds  through  many  a  clime  a  ranger, 
Com'st  thou  to  doff  thy  russet  suit  once  more 

And  play  in  foppish  trim  the  masquing  stranger  1 
Philosophers  may  teach  thy  whereabouts  and  nature  ; 

But  wke,  as  all  of  us,  perforce,  must  think  'em, 
The  school-boy  best  hath  fixed  thy  nomenclature, 

And  poets,  too,  must  call  thee  Bob-O-Linkum. 

Say  !  art  thou,  long  'mid  forest  glooms  benighted, 

So  glad  to  skim  our  laughing  meadows  over — 
With  our  gay  orchards  here  so  much  delighted, 

It  makes  thee  musical,  thou  airy  rover  ? 
Or  are  those  buoyant  notes  the  pilfer' d  treasure 

Of  fairy  isles,  which  thou  hast  learn'd  to  ravish 
Of  all  their  sweetest  minstrelsy  at  pleasure, 

And,  Ariel-like,  again  on  men  to  lavish  ? 

They  tell  sad  stories  of  thy  mad-cap  freaks 
Wherever  o'er  the  land  thy  pathway  ranges  ; 

And  even  in  a  brace  of  wandering  weeks, 
They  say,  alike  thy  song  and  plumage  changes  ; 


94  LAYS    OFTHE    HUDSON. 

Here  both  are  gay  ;  and  when  the  buds  put  forth, 
And  leafy  June  is  shading  rock  and  river, 

Thou  art  unmatch'd,  blithe  warbler  of  the  North, 
While  through  the  balmy  air  thy  clear  notes  quiver. 

Joyous,  yet  tender — was  that  gush  of  song 

Caught  from  the  brooks,  where  'mid  its  wild  flow 
ers  smiling 
The  silent  prairie  listens  all  day  long, 

The  only  captive  to  such  sweet  beguiling  ; 
Or  didst  thou,  flitting  through  the  verdurous  halls 

And  column'd  isles  of  western  groves  symphonious, 
Learn  from  the  tuneful  woods,  rare  madrigals, 

To  make  our  flowering  pastures  here  harmonious  ? 

Caught'st  thou  thy  carol  from  Otawa  maid, 

Where,  through  the  liquid  fields  of  wild  rice  plashing, 
Brushing  the  ears  from  off  the  burden'd  blade, 

Her  birch  canoe  o'er  some  lone  lake  is  flashing  ? 
Or  did  the  reeds  of  some  savannah  south, 

Detain  thee  while  thy  northern  flight  pursuing, 
To  place  those  melodies  in  thy  sweet  mouth, 

The  spice-fed  winds  had  taught  them  in  their  woo 
ing? 

Unthrifty  prodigal ! — is  no  thought  of  ill 
Thy  ceaseless  roundelay  disturbing  ever? 

Or  doth  each  pulse  in  choiring  cadence  still 
Throb  on  in  music  till  at  rest  for  ever  ? 


THEBOB-0-LINKUM.  95 

Yet  now  in  wilder'd  maze  of  concord  floating, 
'Twould  seem  that  glorious  hymning  to  prolong, 

Old  Time  in  hearing  thee  might  fall  a-doting, 
And  pause  to  listen  to  thy  rapturous  song ! 


FOREST    MUSINGS. 


THE  Hunt  is  up — 
The  merry  woodland  shout, 
That  rung  these  echoing  glades  about 

An  hour  agone, 
Hath  swept  beyond  the  eastern  hills, 

Where,  pale  and  lone, 
The  moon  her  mystic  circle  fills  ; 
Awhile  across  her  slowly  reddening  disk 

The  dusky  larch, 

As  if  to  pierce  the  blue  o'erhanging  arch, 
Lifts  its  tall  obelisk. 

And  now  from  thicket  dark, 

And  now  from  mist-wreathed  river 
The  fire-fly's  spark 

Will  fitful  quiver 
And  bubbles  round  the  lily's  cup 
From  lurking  trout  come  coursing  up, 
Where  stoops  the  wading  fawn  to  drink  : 

While  scared  by  step  so  near, 
Uprising  from  the  sedgy  brink 
The  clanging  bittern's  cry  will  sink 


FOREST    MUSINGS.  97 

Upon  the  hunter's  ear ; 
Who,  startled  from  his  early  sleep, 

Lists  for  some  sound  approaching  nigher — 
Half-dreaming,  lists — then  turns  to  heap 

Another  fagot  on  his  fire, 
And  then  again,  in  dreams  renewed, 
Pursues  his  quarry  through  the  wood. 

And  thus  upon  my  dreaming  youth, 

When  boyhood's  gambols  pleased  no  more, 
And  young  Romance  in  guise  of  Truth, 
UsnrpM  the  heart  all  theirs  before  ; 
Thus  broke  Ambition's  trumpet-note 

On  visions  wild, 
Yet  blithesome  as  this  river 

On  which  the  smiling  moonbeams  float 
That  thus  have  there  for  ages  smiled, 
And  will  thus  smile  for  ever. 
And  now  no  more  the  fresh  green-wood, 

The  forest's  fretted  aisles, 
And  leafy  domes  above  them,  bent, 
And  solitude 

So  eloquent ! 

Mocking  the  varied  skill  y'-blent 
In  Art's  most  gorgeous  piles — 
No  more  can  soothe  my  soul  to  sleep 
Than  they  can  awe  the  sounds  that  sweep 
To  hunter's  horn  and  merriment 
Their  verdant  passes  through, 


LAYS     OF    THE    HUDSON. 

When  fresh  the  dun-deer  leaves  his  scent 
Upon  the  morning  dew. 

The  game's  afoot ! — and  let  the  chase 
Lead- on,  whate'er  my  destiny — 

Though  fate  her  funeral  drum  may  brace 
Full  soon  for  me  ! 

And  wave  death's  pageant  o'er  me — 
Yet  now  the  new  and  untried  world 
Like  maiden  banner  first  unfurl'd, 

Is  glancing  bright  before  me  ! 
The  quarry  soars  !  and  mine  is  now  the  sky, 
Where,  "at  what  bird  I  please,  my  hawk  shall  fly !" 

Yet  something  whispers  through  the  wood — 
A  voice  like  that  perchance 

Which  taught  the  haunter  of  Egeria's  grove 
To  tame  the  Roman's  dominating  mood, 

And  lower,  for  awhile,  his  conquering  lance 
Before  the  images  of  Law  and  Love — 
Some  mystic  voice  that  ever  since  hath  dwelt 

Along  with  Echo  in  her  dim  retreat, 
A  voice  whose  influence  all,  at  times,  have  felt 

By  wood,  or  glen,  or  where  on  silver  strand 
The  clasping  waves  of  Ocean's  belt 

Will  clashing  meet 

Around  the  land  : 
It  whispers  me  that  soon — too  soon 

The  pulses  which  now  beat  so  high, 


FORESTMUSINGS.  99 

Impatient  with  the  world  to  cope, 
Will,  like  the  hues  of  autumn  sky, 
Be  changed  and  fallen  ere  life's  noon 
Should  tame  its  morning  hope. 

Yet  why, 

While  Hope  so  jocund  singeth 
And  with  her  plumes  the  gray  beard's  arrow  wing- 
eth. 

Should  I 

Think  only  of  the  barb  it  bringeth  ? 
Though  every  dream  deceive 

That  to  my  youth  is  dearest, 
Until  my  heart  they  leave 

Like  forest  leaf  when  searest — 
Yet  still,  mid  forest  leaves, 

Where  now 

Its  tissue  thus  my  idle  fancy  weaves, 
Still  with  heart  new-blossoming 
While  leaves,  and  buds,  and  wild  flowers  soring, 

At  Nature's  shrine  I'll  bow  ; 
Nor  seek  in  vain  that  truth  in  her 
She  keeps  for  her  idolater. 


'INDIAN    SUMMER,    1828. 


LIGHT  as  love's  smile  the  silvery  mist  at  morn 
Floats  in  loose  flakes  along  the  limpid  river  ; 
The  blue-bird's  notes  upon  the  soft  breeze  borne, 

As  high  in  air  he  carols,  faintly  quiver ; 
The  weeping  birch,  like  banners  idly  waving, 
Bends  to  the  stream,  its  spicy  branches  laving ; 

Beaded  with  dew  the  witch-elm's  tassels  shiver ; 
The  timid  rabbit  from  the  furze  is  peeping, 
And  from  the  springy  spray  the  squirrel  gaily  leaping. 

I  love  thee,  Autumn,  for  thy  scenery,  ere 

The  blasts  of  winter  chase  the  varied  dyes 
That  richly  deck  the  slow  declining  year  ; 
I  love  the  splendor  of  thy  sunset  skies, 
The  gorgeous  hues  that  tint  each  failing  leaf 
Lovely  as   beauty's  cheek,  as  woman's   love  too, 

brief; 

I  love  the  note  of  each  wild  bird  that  flies, 
As  on  the  wind  he  pours  his  parting  lay, 
And   wings   his  loitering  flight  to   summer  climes 
away. 


~ — g 

INDIAN    SUMMER.  101 

Oh  Nature  !  fondly  I  still  turn  to  thee 

With  feelings  fresh  as  e'er  my  childhood's  were  ; 
Though  wild  and  passion-tost  my  youth  may  be, 

Toward  thee  I  still  the  same  devotion  bear ; 
To  thee— to  thee— though  health  and  hope  no  more 
Life's  wasted  verdure  may  to  me  restore — 

Still — still,  childlikerl  come,  as  when  in  prayer 
I  bowed  my  head  upon  a  mother's  knee, 
And  deem'd  the  world  like  her,  all  truth  and  purity. 


WHAT  IS   SOLITUDE? 


NOT  in  the  shadowy  wood, 

Not  in  the  crag-hung  glen, 
Not  where  the  echoes  brood 

In  caves  untrod  by  men  ; 
Not  by  the  bleak  seashore, 

Where  barren  surges  break, 
Not  on  the  mountain  hoar, 

Not  by  the  breezeless  lake  ; 
Not  on  the  desert  plain 

Where  man  hath  never  stood, 
Whether  on  isle  or  main — 

Not  there  is  solitude ! 

Birds  are  in  woodland  bowers  ; 

Voices  in  lonely  dells : 
Streams  to  the  listening  hours 

Talk  in  earth's  secret  cells  ; 
Over  the  gray-ribb'd  sand 

Breathe  Ocean's  frothy  lips  ; 
Over  the  still  lake's  strand 

The  wild  flower  toward  it  dips, 


WHAT    IS     SOLITUDE?  103 

Pluming  the  mountain's  crest 

Life  tosses  in  its  pines, 
Coursing  the  desert's  breast 

Life  in  the  steed's  mane  shines. 

Leave — if  thou  wouldst  be  lonely — 

Leave  Nature  for  the  crowd  ; 
Seek  there  for  one— one  only 

With  kindred  mind  endow'd  ! 
There — as  with  Nature  erst 

Closely  thou  wouldst  commune — 
The  deep  soul-music  nursed 

In  either  heart,  attune  ! 
Heart- wearied  thou  wilt  own, 

Vainly  that  phantom  woo'd, 
That  thou  at  last  hast  known 

What  is  true  Solitude ! 


PRIMEVAL    WOODS. 


YES  !   even  here,  not  less  than  in  the  crowd, 

Here,  where  yon  vault  in  formal  sweep  seems  piled 

Upon  the  pines,  monotonously  proud, 

Fit  dome  for  fane,  within  whose  hoary  veil 

No  ribald  voice  an  echo  hath  defiled — 

Where  Silence  seems  articulate  ;  up-stealing 

Like  a  low  anthem's  heavenward  wail : — 

Oppressive  on  my  bosom  weighs  the  feeling 

Of  thoughts  that  language  cannot  shape  aloud ; 

For  song  too  solemn,  and  for  prayer  too  wild, — 

Thoughts,  winch  beneath  no  human  power  could 

quail, 

For  lack  of  utterance,  in  abasement  bow'd. — 
The  cavern' d  waves  that  struggle  for  revealing, 
Upon  whose  idle  foam  alone  God's  light  hath  smiled. 

n. 

Ere  long  thine  every  stream  shall  find  a  tongue, 
Land  of  the  Many  Waters  !    But  the  sound 
Of  human  music,  these  wild  hills  among, 
Hath  no  one  save  the  Indian  mother  flung 


PRIMEVAL    WOODS.  105 

Its  spell  of  tenderness  ?    Oh,  o'er  this  ground 

So  redolent  of  Beauty,  hath  there  play'd  no  breath 

Of  human  poesy — none  beside  the  word 

Of  Love,  as,  murmur'd  these  old  boughs  beneath, 

Some  fierce  and  savage  suitor  it  hath  bound 

To  gentle  pleadings  ?    Have  but  these  been  heard  1 

No  mind,  no  soul  here  kindled  but  my  own  ? 

Doth  not  one  hollow  trunk  about  resound 

With  the  faint  echoes  of  a  song  long  flown, 

By  shadows  like  itself  now  haply  heard  alone  ? 

in. 

And  Ye,  with  all  this  primal  growth  must  go  ! 
And  loiterers  beneath  some  lowly  spreading  shade, 
Where  pasture-kissing  breezes  shall,  ere  then,  have 

play'd, 

A  century  hence,  will  doubt  that  there  could  grow 
From  that  meek  land  such  Titans  of  the  glade  ! 
Yet  wherefore  primal  ?  when  beneath  my  tread 
Are  roots  whose    thrifty  growth,   perchance   hath 

arm'd 

The  Anak  spearman  when  his  trump  alarm'd 
Roots  that  the  Deluge  wave  hath  plunged  below ; 
Seeds  that  the  Deluge  wind  hath  scattered  ; 
Berries  that  Eden's  warblers  may  have  fed  ; 
In  slime  of  earlier  worlds  preserved  unharmed, 
Again  to  quicken,  germinate,  and  blow, 
Again  to  charm  the  land  as  erst  the  land    they 

charm' d. 
0 — 


THE    LAUREL. 


BELIEVE  him  not,  that  rhyming,  rakish  Roman, 
Who  swore  so  roundly  that  a  lover's  quarrel 

Between  one  Phoebus  and  some  thick-shod  woman, 
First  caused  to  sprout  the  leaflets  of  the  laurel ! 

Why,  long  ago, — ere  his  Deucalion  floated 
Upon  that  freshet,  which  was  so  surprising 

In  that  small  world  where  every  rill  is  noted, 
As  if  it  were  a  Mississippi  rising  ; 

Yes,  long  ere  then,  on  ALLEGHAN'S  bright  moun 
tains, 

Na-nabozho  had  seen  the  laurel  growing, 
With  berries  glassed  in  Adirondach  fountains, 

Or  cup  mist-filled  near  Niagara's  flowing : 

A  crimped  and  dainty  cup,  whose  timid  flushing 
Tinted  the  creamy  hue  of  lips  so  shrinking, 

He  thought  at  first  some  sentient  thing  was  blushing, 
To  be  thus  caught  from  such  a  caldron  drinking. 


O- 


THE    LAUREL.  107 

Plants  then  had  tongues, — if  we  believe  old  story, 
As  told  by  red  men  under  forest  branches, — 

(Who  still  insist  they  hear  that  language  hoary, 
Ere  mountain-woods  descend  in  avalanches.*) 


Plants  then  had  tongues,  and  in  their  caieless  tattle, 
Each  painted  creature  on  its  footstalk  swaying, 

Beguiled  the  loitering  hunter,  with  their  prattle, 
Secrets  of  Nature  and  old  Earth  betraying. 

And  once,  they  said,   when   Earth    seemed    fully 
freighted 

With  pearly  cup,  and  star,  and  tufted  blossom, 
A  Mohawk  youth,  with  spirit  all  unmated, 

On  old  Ta-ha-wusj  flung  his  weary  bosom. 

He  knew  not,  could  not,  comprehend  the  feeling 
That  kept  him  mute  oppressed  with  thought  unut- 
tered, 

That  wild,  wild  sense  of  loveliness  o'erstealing 
Which  urged  his  pent  soul  forth  on  wing  unfettered. 

*  Forest  Avalanches,  or  "Mountain  Slides,"  are 
said  to  be  preceded  by  a  strange  groaning  of  the  trees. 
It  is  probable,  however,  only  the  grinding  of  the 
loosened  ground  beneath  them. 

t  The  high  peak  of  the  Adirondachs,  in  whose  side 
is  the  fountain-head  of  the  Hudson. 


o • 

108  LAYS    OF    THE    HUDSON. 

Despairing  and  bewildered  in  his  sorrow, 

He  pressed  with  quivering  lip  the  hollow  mountain, 

As  he  its  giant  hardihood  would  borrow, 
Its  free-voiced  rushing  wind  and  chainless  fountain. 

This  for  a  savage  to  be  sure  was  tender, — 
Whose  hottest  passion  chiefly  for  the  chase  is : 

And  when  his  native  soil  refused  to  render 
Aught  of  response  to  her  wild  son's  embraces, — 

He  breathed  into  the  ground  vague  thoughts  of  power, 
The  yearnings  of  a  soul  in  silence  hidden  ; 

Beneath  the  midnight  sky  in  that  lone  hour, 
Thought  found  a  language  by  itself  unbidden ! 

Then,  with  no  human  eye  its  birth  beholding, 
No  fostering  plaudit  human  hands  bestowing1, 

First  to  the  dew  its  glossy  leaves  unfolding, 

Sprouted  the  Laurel,  from  its  own  heart  growing. 

And  still  that  type  of  native  genius  telleth, 
On  barren  rock,  or  lonely  woodland  bower, 

Not  in  approval,  but  in  Utterance  dwelleth 
The  Poet's  craving,  and  the  Poet's  power. 


anir  ©aasional  $ 


— o 


SONGS  AND  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


MONTEREY. 

"  Pends  toi  Brave  Crillon !    Nous  avons  combattu, 
et  tu  n'  y  etois  pas." — Lettre  de  Henri  IV.  a.  Crillon. 

WE  were  not  many — we  who  stood 

Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day — 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  he  then  could 

Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot,  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 


112      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

And  on — still  on  our  column  kept 

Through  walls  of  flame  its  withering  way ; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play  ; 
Where  orange  boughs  above  their  grave 
Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many — we  who  press'd 

Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day  ; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confess'd 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest, 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey  ? 


— o 


"BRUNT   THE  FIGHT." 

SUGGESTED   BY  AN   EMBALMED   INDIAN   HEAD. 

NOT  to  the  conflict,  where  those  death  wounds  came 
That  still  discolor  thine  undaunted  brow, 

Not  to  the  wildwood,  where  thy  soul  of  flame 
Found  vent  alone  in  deeds — all  nameless  now, 

Though  startled  fancy  first  by  these  is  caught — 

Not,  not  to  these  dost  thou  enchain  my  thought ! 

The  tuft  of  honor,  streaming  there  unshorn,* 
The  separate  gashes,  every  one  in  front, 

Prove  knightly  crest  was  ne'er  more  bravely  borne 
By  charging  champion  through  the  battle's  brunt, 

While  those  old  scars,  from  forays  long  since  past. 

Bespeak  the  warrior's  life  from  first  to  last  • 

Bespeak  the  man  who  acted  out  the  whole — 
The  whole  of  all  he  knew  of  high  and  true, 

All  that  was  vision'd  in  his  savage  soul, 

All  that  his  barbarous  powers  on  earth  could  do  ; 

*  See  "  Vigil  of  Faith,"  stanza  xxii. 


114      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Bespeak  the  being  perfect  to  the  plan 

Of -Nature  when  she  moulded  such  a  man. 

His  simple  law  of  duty  and  of  right — 

Oneness  of  soul  in  action,  thought  and  feeling  ; 

His  mind,  disturb'd  by  no  conflicting  light, 
His  narrow  faith,  so  clear  in  each  revealing  ; 

His  will  untramell'd  to  act  out  the  part 

So  plainly  graved  on  his  untutor'd  heart : 

Envy  I  these  ?   Would  I  for  these  forego 
The  broader  scope  of  being  that  is  mine  ? 

His  bond  of  sense  with  spirit  once  to  know 
Would  I  the  strife  for  truth  and  good  resign  ? 

How  can  I — when,  according  to  my  light, 

My  laio,  like  his,  is  still  to  BRUNT  THE  FIGHT  ! 


O- 


LE   FAINEANT. 


u  Now  arouse  thee,  Sir  Knight,  from  thine  indolent 

ease, 

Fling  boldly  thy  banner  abroad  in  the  breeze, 
Strike  home  for  thy  lady — strive  hard  for  the  prize, 
And  thy  guerdon  shall  beam  from  her  love-lighted 

eyes!" 

"  I  shrink  not  the  trial,"  that  bluff  knight  replied — 
"  But  I  battle — not  7— for  an  unwilling  bride  ; 
Where  the  boldest  may  venture  to  do  and  to  dare, 
My  pennon  shall  flutter — my  bugle  peal  there  ! 

"  I  quail  not  at  aught  in  the  struggle  of  life, 
I'm  not  all  unproved  even  now  in  the  strife, 
But  the  wreath  that  I  win,  all  unaided — alone, 
Round  a  faltering  brow  it  shall  never  be  thrown  !" 

"  Now  fie  on  thy  manhood,  to  deem  it  a  sin 
That  she  loveth  the  glory  thy  falchion  might  win, 
Let  them  doubt  of  thy  prowess  and  fortune  no  more  ; 
Up  !  Sir  Knight,  for  thy  Lady— and  do  thy  devoir !" 


116      SONOS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

"  She  hath  shrunk  from  my  side,  she  hath  failed  in 

her  trust, 

Not  relied  on  my  blade,  but  remember'd  its  rust ; 
It  shall  brighten  once  more  in  the  field  of  its  fame, 
But  it  is  not  for  her  I  would  now  win  a  name." 

The  knight  rode  away,  and  the  lady  she  sigh'd, 
When  he  featly  as  ever  his  steed  would  bestride, 
While  the  mould  from  the  banner  he  shook  to  the 

wind 
Seem'd  to  fall  on  the  breast  he  left  aching  behind. 

Bat  the  rust  on  his  glaive  and  the  rust  in  his  heart 
Had  corroded  too  long  and  too  deep  to  depart, 
And  the  brand  only  brighten'd  in  honor  once  more, 
When  the  heart  ceased  to  beat  on  the  fray-trampled 
shore. 


SPARKLING  AND  BRIGHT. 


SPARKLING  and  bright  in  liquid  light 
Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in, 
With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 

Which  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

Oh  !   if  Mirth  might  arrest  the  flight 

Of  Time  through  Life's  dominions, 
We  here  awhile  would  now  beguile 
The  gray-beard  of  his  pinions, 
To  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

But  since  delight  can't  tempt  the  wight, 

Nor  fond  regret  delay  him, 
0 


118      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Nor  love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 
Nor  sober  Friendship  stay  him, 
We'll  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 


ROSALIE    CLARE. 

WHO   owns  not  she's  peerless — who  calls  her  not 

fair — 

Who  questions  the  beauty  of  Rosalie  Clare  ? 
Let  him  saddle  his  courser  and  spur  to  the  field, 
And  though  harness'd  in  proof,  he  must  perish  or 

yield ; 

For  no  gallant  can  splinter — no  charger  may  dare 
The  lance  that  is  couch'd^for  young  Rosalie  Clare. 

When  goblets  are  flowing,  and  wit  at  the  board 
Sparkles  high,  while  the  blood  of  the  red  grape  is 

pour'd, 

And  fond  wishes  for  fair  ones  around  offer'd  up 
From  each  lip  that  is  wet  with  the  dew  of  the  cup, — 
What  name  on  the  brimmer  floats  oftener  there, 
Or  is  whisper'd  more  warmly,  than  Rosalie  Clare  1 

They  may  talk  of  the  land  of  the  olive  and  vine — 
Of  the  maids  of  the  Ebro,  the  Arno,  or  Rhine  ; — 
Of  the  Houris  that  gladden  the  East  with  their  smiles, 
Where  the  sea's  studded  over  with  green  summer 
isles ; 


120      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POKMS. 

But  what  flower  of  far-away  clime  can  compare 
With  the  blossom  of  ours— bright  Rosalie  Clare  ? 

Who  owns  not  she's  peerless — who  calls  her  not  fair  ? 
Let  him  meet  but  the  glances  of  Rosalie  Clare  ! 
Let  him  list  to  her  voice — let  him  gaze  on  her  form — 
And  if,  hearing  and  seeing,  his  soul  do  not  warm, 
Let  him  go  breathe  it  out  in  some  less  happy  air 
Than  that  which  is  bless'd  by  sweet  Rosalie  Clare. 


THE  MYRTLE  AND  STEEL. 

iv  [jtvprov  TO  /cXaJi  £tyo$  (poprjaa) — Callistratus. 

ONE  bumper  yet,  gallants,  at  parting, 

One  toast  ere  we  arm  for  the  fight : 
Fill  round,  each  to  her  he  loves  dearest — 

'Tis  the  last  he  may  pledge  her,  to-njght ! 
Think  of  those  who  of  old  at  the  banquet 

Did  their  weapons  in  garlands  conceal, 
The  patriot  heroes  who  hallow'd 

The  entwining  of  Myrtle  and  Steel ! 

Then  hey  for  the  Myrtle  and  Steel ! 

Then  ho  for  the  Myrtle  and  Steel ! 
Let  every  true  blade  that  e'er  loved  a  fair  maid 

Fill  a  round  to  the  Myrtle  and  Steel. 

'Tis  in  moments  like  this,  when  each  bosom 
With  its  highest-toned  feeling  is  warm, 

Like  the  music  that's  said  from  the  ocean 
To  rise  in  the  gathering  storm,* 

*  In  Pascagoula  Bay  strange  music  is  heard  when 
certain  winds  prevail.  Naturalists  attribute  the  phe 
nomenon  to  the  vibration  of  the  '  horns '  of  catfish, 
which  at  such  times  congregate  in  large  schools. 

3 


122      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

That  her  image  around  us  should  hover, 

Whose  name,  though  our  lips  ne'er  reveal, 
We  may  breathe  through  the  foam  of  a  bumper, 

As  we  drink  to  the  Myrtle  and  Steel. 

Then  hey  for  the  Myrtle  and  Steel ! 

Then  ho  for  the  Myrtle  and  Steel ! 
Let  every  true  blade  that  e'er  loved  a  fair  maid 

Fill  a  round  to  the  Myrtle  and  Steel. 

Now  mount,  for  our  bugle  is  ringing 

To  marshal  the  host  for  the  fray, 
Where  our  flag  to  the  firmament  springing 

Flames  over  the  battle  array  : 
Yet, — gallants— one  moment — remember, 

When  your  sabres  the  death-blow  would  deal, 
That  MERCY  wears  her  shape  who's  cherished 

By  lads  of  the  Myrtle  and  Steel. 

Then  hey  for  the  Myrtle  and  Steel ! 

Then  ho  for  the  Myrtle  and  Steel ! 
Let  every  true  blade  that  e'er  loved  a  fair  maid 

Fill  a  round  to  the  Myrtle  and  Steel. 


ALGONQUIN  WAR  SONG. 
"PE  NA  SE-WUG." 

HEAR  not  ye  their  shrill-piping 

screams  on  the  air  ? 
Up !  Braves,  for  the  conflict 

prepare  ye — prepare  ! 
Aroused  from  the  canebrake, 

far  south,  by  your  drum 
With  beaks  whet  for  carnage, 

the  Battle  Birds  come. 

Oh  God  of  my  fathers, 

as  swiftly  as  they, 
I  ask  but  to  swoop 

from  the  hills  on  my  prey : 
Give  this  frame  to  the  winds, 

on  the  Prairie  below, 
But  my  soul,  like  thy  bolt — 

I  would  hurl  on  the  foe ! 

On  the  forehead  of  Earth 

strikes  the  Sun  in  his  might, 


124      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Oh  gift  me  with  glances 

as  searching  as  light, 

In  the  front  of  the  onslaught, 
to  single  each  crest, 

Till  my  hatchet  grows  red 

on  their  hravest  and  best. 

Why  stand  ye  back  idly, 

ye  Sons  of  the  Lake  ? 

Who  boast  of  the  scalp-locks 
ye  tremble  to  take. 

Fear-dreamers  may  linger, 

my  skies  are  all  bright — 

On— on— to  the  War  Path,* 

MY  GOD  AND  MY  RlGHT. 

*  Hoh  !    Nemonedo  netaibuatum  o  win. 


ALGONQUIN  DEATH  SONG. 

"A  BE  TUH  GE  ZHIG." 

UNDER  the  hollow  sky, 
Stretch' d  on  the  Prairie  lone, 

Centre  of  glory,  I 
Bleeding,  disdain  to  groan, 

But  like  a  battle  cry 
Peal  forth  thy  thunder  moan, 
Baim-wa-wa!* 

Star — Morning-Star,  whose  ray 
Still  with  the  dawn  I  see, 

Quenchless  through  half  the  day, 
Gazing  thou  seest  me  ; 

Yon  birds  of  carnage,  they 

Fright  not  my  gaze  from  thee  !f 

Baim-wa-wa ! 

*  Baim-wa-wa  means  "  the  sound  of  passing  thun 
ders,"  a  phrase  which  will  convey  a  just  idea  of  the 
violence  of  this  figure,  and  the  impossibility  of  ren 
dering  it  into  English  by  any  single  word, 

t  The  battle-fields  of  our  Mexican  war  have  given 
a  new  and  terrible  interest  to  this  bold  figure  of  the 


190     iONOH    AND    OCrANlONAI.    POKMI. 

IMI.I.  in  thine  .in  \  mi" . 

Over  tllP  l.'rni.-n'  .  Him, 

\Vliy  do  thy  Happing  winjjs 

\.-.ii.-i  in,-  din .  incline  •' 

w.Miiuli'd  Indian  warrior.  Tho  following  paragraph, 
\vlu, -b  :ip|H«arod  in  a  N.-u  Y.uk  joniu.-il  :i  \\-\\  ,l.i\s 
pNHwIing  the  nrrivnl  of  tl»>  RtWt  of  tho  bloody  I'uOil 
of  ItuiMiti  \'i>t»,  lint  nil  tho  Inttmtof  whtt  tho  nowa- 
pn|H>w  onll  "  «  curious  coiucidonoo  :" 

/'Acwomfwow  I'M  Natural  lliatttry. — Tho  Mont* 
}jon»ory  fAltlNURt)  .lourual  says — 

"An  iiucllijront  :iu.i  rolirvbl* oorrwpond«nt  «t  Mis 
souri,  Tiko  county,  InfbflM  us  of  ti  Mu^ultir  circuin- 
•tnuco,  \\liu-h  h.ul  MMI\C\\  II.K  troul>lod  nuvuy  of  tho 
worthy  citi/ous  of  that  section.  Thi«  wns  tho  np- 
pcnrnuco  »>1%  nu  iuuuouso  tlisjht  uf  tho  jjrcnt  Auicri- 
enu  vulluiv,  of  sovorul  inil(>s  in  Icu^tli,  nnd  con- 
tniuiujj  luillious  of  thoso  noriul  scnvtMi^crs.  They 
wort>  w  loutf  tiiuo  in  nnwiuy,  nnd  nt  times  «!.ulv<-iK>.l 
tho  wholo  hori/on.  Tuo  writer  s«ys  they  cmuo  nearly 
iVoiu  d»»o  no ilh  nnd  »t«>rt»d  ncnrly  south  ;  somo 
flow  so  l»»\v  ns  to  IH>  within  the  hiuiis  of  tlu>  houghs 
t»f  tho  tnlleM  titvs,  nnd  others  so  hijjh  as  scarcely  to 
IM>  »w»n.  At  ono  timo  the  wholo  canopy  MVUU-.I  t,> 
be  dnikeiuvl  with  th«v<*o  birds  fivin  east  t>>  \\, M.  mnili 
to  south  ;  from  the  tojwof  ti^^s  to  «s  lu^h  as  tlu-  M-ht 
could  ivach,  was  ono  dark  cloud. 

"  Tho  ouostiou  «o>v  is  one  of  interest  to  naturalists, 
wheiv  such  a  vast  number  of  those  bii.U  i-oul.l  \\-.\\s 
i.  and  why  thUpMMf*,  M>  «nusii:»l,  (I.M\I  Us 
known  habits." 

Tlx>  \lal>;unian  is  ovidcntly  no  pwt,  or  ho  could 
vu't  tail  to  ln\<>  intcvprctiHl  this  "  IMuMloiuonon  "  fta 


ALOOHQU1K    DEATH    HOMtt.  137 

Blood  of  tho  fJiiuriUwM  bringt* 
Couratf*!,  oh  Bird,  to  Miirio  ! 

Hark  to  Uio*>  Hpirit-  nota»  I 
Y«:  high  Hi-ro<»  fliviriu, 

If  yimiwl  from  your  «o»l  lik«i  throat* 
T},.,I.  HoMj'of  I'raiMi  kminol 


.  .  ,.       ,  ,    ,„    ,     ,„ 

M,XH:O.  H,.,:h  a  .a^rrtiliiin  a,  '  ihw,  u  Common 
.-irnofi"  GUI  Jii.li:i.r,  tfiMf,  who  «:;ill  fh<TM5  hinbj  "th«5 
bftttU  hinl»." 

"  Arorjwrrl  from  (),••  <.;,,:'•  ,-•;;:•  .  f.,;  ,,,,»},  i,y  y,,.jr 
With  U;ik»  whet  for  carna^r  th 


r«toBchoolcraft'»  "  OiwoU."— JV.  r.  (7/z 
ipah-thtne,  or  "Th«  Danntl^n,"  j4  a  tjtlo 

»',:,;>    :•„,„••    lfi',i-.   »,f    (I.-    N,,,.},  ,;,     '    .,,  .j.,,  (; 


128      SONOS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Over  the  foeman's  line  ! 
Baim-wa-wa ! 

villages  extend  through  the  region  of  Lake  Superior, 
and  the  utmost  sources  of  the  Mississippi." 


"RIO    BRAVO." 

A  MEXICAN  LAMENT. — Air — Roncesvalles. 


Rio  BRA.VO  !  Rio  Bravo !  saw  men  ever  such  a  sight 

Since  the  field  of  Roncesvalles  sealed  the  fate  of  many 
a  knight. 

Dark  is  Palo  Alto's  story — sad  Resaca  Palma's  rout, 

Ah  me  !  upon  those  fields  so  gory  how  many  a  gal 
lant  life  went  out. 

There  our  best  and  bravest  lances  shivered  'gainst  the 
Northern  steel, 

Left  the  valiant  hearts  that  couch'd  them  'neath  the 
Northern  charger's  heel. 

Rio  Bravo  !  Rio  Bravo !  brave  hearts  ne'er  mourned 
such  a  sight, 

Since  the  noblest  lost  their  life-blood  in  the  Ronces 
valles  fight. 

II. 

There  Arista,  best  and  bravest — there  Raguena,  tried 

and  true, 
On  the  fatal  field  thou  lavest,  nobly  did  all  men  could 

do; 


130      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Vainly  there  those  heroes  rally,  Castile  on  Montezu- 

ma's  shore, 
Vainly  there  shone  Aztec  valor  brightly  as  it  shone 

of  yore. 

Rio  Bravo !   Rio  Bravo  !  saw  men  ever  such  a  sight, 
Since  the  dews  of  Roncesvalles  wept  for  Paladin  and 

knight. 

III. 

Heard  ye  not  the  wounded  coursers  shrieking  on  yon 
trampled  banks, 

As  the  Northern  wing'd  artillery  thundered  on  our 
shattered  ranks  ? 

On  they  came — those  Northern  horsemen — on  like 
eagles  toward  the  sun, 

Followed  then  the  Northern  bayonet,  and  the  field 
was  lost  and  won. 

Rio  Bravo  !  Rio  Bravo  !  minstrel  ne'er  sung  such  a 
fight, 

Since  the  lay  of  Roncesvalles  sang  the  fame  of  mar 
tyred  knight. 

IV. 

Rio  Bravo  !   fatal  river !  saw  ye  not,  while  red  with 

gore, 
One  cavalier  all  headless  quiver,  a  nameless  trunk 

upon  thy  shore  1 
Other  champions  not  less  noted  sleep  beneath  thy 

sullen  wave. 


O- 


"RIO    BRAVO."  131 

Sullen  water,  thou  hast  floated  armies  to  an  ocean 

grave. 
Rio  Bravo  !  Rio  Bravo  !  lady  ne'er  wept  such  a 

sight, 
Since  the  moon  of  Roncesvalles  kiss'd  in  death  her 

own  loved  knight. 


Weepest  thou,  lorn  Lady  Inez,  for  thy  lover  'mid  the 
slain  ? 

Brave  La  Vega's  trenchant  sabre  cleft  his  slayer  to 
the  brain — 

Brave  La  Vega  who,  all  lonely,  by  a  host  of  foes 
beset, 

Yielded  up  his  falchion  only,  when  his  equal  there 
he  met. 

O,  for  Roland's  horn  to  rally  his  Paladins  by  that  sad 
shore ! 

Rio  Bravo,  Roncesvalles,  ye  are  names  linked  ever 
more. 

VI. 

Sullen  river  I   sullen  river !   vultures  drink  thy  gory 

wave, 
But  they  blur  not  those  loved  features,  which  not 

Love  himself  could  save. 
Rio  Bravo,  thou  wilt  name  not  that  lone  corse  upon 

thy  shore, 


132      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

But  in  prayer  sad  Inez  names  him,  names  him  pray 
ing  evermore. 

Rio  Bravo !  Rio  Bravo !  lady  ne'er  mourned  such  a 
knight, 

Since  the  fondest  hearts  were  broken  by  the  Ronces- 
valles  fight. 


BUFF   AND   BLUE. 

Air— "  Old  Dan  Tucker." 


OH  bold  and  true, 

In  buff  and  blue, 
Is  the  soldier-lad  that  will  fight  for  you. 

In  fort  or  field, 

Untaught  to  yield, 
Though  death  may  close  his  story — 

In  charge  or  storm, 

'Tis  woman's  form 
That  marshals  him  to  glory. 

For  bold  and  true, 

In  buff  and  blue, 
Is  the  soldier-lad  that  will  fight  for  you. 

In  each  fair  fold 
His  eyes  behold 

When  his  country's  flag  waves  o'er  him — 
In  each  rosy  stripe, 
Like  her  lip  so  ripe, 


J34      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

His  girl  is  still  before  him. 

For  bold  and  true, 

In  buff  and  blue, 
Is  the  soldier-lad  that  will  fight  for  you. 


THE  MEN  OF  CHURUBUSCO. 


THEY'LL  point  them  out  in  after  years — 

The  men  of  Churubusco  fight ! 
And  tender  hearts  will  name  with  tears 

The  gallant  spirits  quenched  in  night, 
When  each  who  under  WINFIELD  fought, 

And  kept  the  field  alive, 
Was  equal,  in  the  deeds  he  wrought, 

To  any  common  five — 
They'll  point  them  out,  those  veterans  then, 

As  far  beyond  all  common  men, 
And  each  to  each,  with  stern  delight, 

Will  name  the  Churubusco  fight. 

They'll  sing  their  praise,  when  they're  no  more — 

The  men  of  Churubusco  fight ! 
And  when  their  latest  march  is  o'er — 

As  one  by  one  is  lost  to  sight — 
Then  girls  will  beg  his  friends  to  spare, 

From  off  that  hoary  brow, 
A  shred  but  of  the  scattered  hair 

Which  waves  so  richly  now  : 


136      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

And  loiterers  by  the  inn-side  hearth 
Will  pause  amid  their  tavern  mirth, 
And,  filling,  fear  since  he  has  pass'd, 
They  drink  "to  Churubusco's  last!" 

They'll  paint  their  deeds  in  statued  hall — 

The  deeds  of  Churubusco  fight : 
And  on  the  smoke-dried  cottage  wall 

Will  smile  their  pictures,  brave  and  bright, 
Who  fought  with  stalwart  SCOTT  of  yore, 

That  storied  field  to  win- 
When  every  warrior  bosom  bore 

Five  hero  hearts  within  : 
They'll  legends  tell  of  heroes  then, 
Far,  far  beyond  all  modern  men, 
And  still  in  song  will  grow  more  bright, 
The  deeds  of  Churubusco  fight 


THE  MINT  JULEP. 

rror'  iyevero  Oeolvi. 

'Tis  said  that  the  gods,  on  Olympus  of  old 

(And  who  the  bright  legend  profanes  with  a  doubt,) 

One  night,  mid  their  revels,  by  Bacchus  were  told 
That  his  last  butt  of  nectar  had  somehow  run  out ! 

But  determined  to  send  round  the  goblet  once  more, 
They  sued  to  the  fairer  immortals  for  aid 

In  composing  a  draught,  which,  till  drinking  were  o'er, 
Should  cast  every  wine  ever  drank  in  the  shade. 

Grave  Ceres  herself  blithely  yielded  her  corn, 

And  the  spirit  that  lives  in  each  amber-hued  grain, 

And  which  first  had  its  birth  from  the  dew  of  the  morn, 
Was  taught  to  steal  out  in  bright  dew-drops  again. 

Pomona,  whose  choicest  of  fruits  on  the  board 
Were  scatter'd  profusely  in  every  one's  reach, 

When  call'd  on  a  tribute  to  cull  from  the  hoard, 
Express'd  the  mild  juice  of  the  delicate  peach. 


138      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

The  liquids  were  mingled  while  Venus  look'd  on 
With  glances  so  fraught  with  sweet  magical  power, 

That  the  honey  of  Hybla,  e'en  when  they  were  gone, 
Has  never  been  miss'd  in  the  draught  from  that  hour. 

Flora,  then,  from  her  bosom  of  fragrancy,  shook, 
And  with  roseate  fingers  press'd  down  in  the  bowl, 

All  dripping  and  fresh  as  it  came  from  the  brook, 
The  herb  whose  aroma  should  flavor  the  whole. 

The  draught  was  delicious,  and  loud  the  acclaim, 
Though  something  seem'd  wanting  for  all  to  bewail, 

But  JULEPS  the  drink  of  immortals  became, 
When  JOVE  himself  added  a  handful  of  hail. 


THE  LOON  UPON  THE  LAKE. 

FROM  THE  CHIPPKWAY. 

I  LOOKED  across  the  water, 

I  bent  over  it  and  listened, 
I  thought  it  was  my  lover, 

My  true  lover's  paddle  glistened. 
Joyous  thus  his  light  canoe  would  the  silver  ripples 

wake. 
But  no  ! — it  is  the  Loon  alone — the  Loon  upon  the 

lake. 
Ah  me !  it  is  the  Loon  alone — the  Loon  upon  the  lake. 

I  see  the  fallen  maple 

Where  he  stood,  his  red  sash  waving, 
Though  waters  nearly  bury 

Boughs  they  then  were  newly  laving. 
I  hear  his  last  farewell,  as  it  echoed  from  the  brake. — 
But  no,  it  is  the  Loon  alone — the  Loon  upon  the  lake, 
Ah  me !  it  is  the  Loon  alone— the  Loon  upon  the  lake. 


ROOM,  BOYS,  ROOM. 


THERE  was  an  old  hunter  camp'd  down  by  the  rill, 
Who  fish'd  in  this  water,  and  shot  on  that  lull. 
The  forest  for  him  had  no  danger,  nor  gloom, 
For  all  that  he  wanted  was  plenty  of  room  ! 
Says  he,  "  The  world's  wide,  there  is  room  for  us  all ; 
Room  enough  in  the  green-wood,  if  not  in  the  hall. 
Room,  boys,  room,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
For  why  shouldn't  every  man  enjoy  his  own  room  ?" 

He  wove  his  own  nets,  and  his  shanty  was  spread 
With  the  skins  he  had  dress'd  and  stretch'd  out  over 
head  ; 

Fresh  branches  of  hemlock  made  fragrant  the  floor, 
For  his  bed,  as  he  sung  when  the  daylight  was  o'er, 
"  The  world's  wide  enough,  there  is  room  for  us  all  j 
Room  enough  in  the  green-wood,  if  not  in  the  hall. 
Room,  boys,  room,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
For  why  shouldn't  every  man  enjoy  his  own  room  ?" 

That  spring  now  half  choked  by  the  dust  of  the  road, 
Under  boughs  of  old  maples  once  Ihnpidly  flow'd  ; 

O 


ROOM,    BOYS,    ROOM.  141 

By  the  rock  whence  it  bubbles  his  ket.tle  was  hung, 
Which  their  sap  often  fill'd,  while  the  hunter  he  sung, 
"  The  world's  wide  enough,  there  is  room  for  us  all ; 
Room  enough  in  the  green-wood,  if  not  in  the  hall. 
Room,  boys,  room,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
For  why  shouldn't  every  man  enjoy  his  own  room  ?" 

And  still  sung  the  hunter — when  one  gloomy  day, 
He  saw  in  the  forest  what  sadden'd  his  lay, — 
A  heavy-wheel'd  wagon  its  black  rut  had  made, 
Where  fair  grew  the  greensward  in   broad  forest 

glade — 

"  The  world's  wide  enough,  there  is  room  for  us  all ; 
Room  enough  in  the  green-wood,  if  not  in  the  hall. 
Room,  boys,  room,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
For  why  shouldn't  every  man  enjoy  his  own  room  ?" 

He  whistled  his  dog,  and  says  he,  "  We  can't  stay ; 
I  must  shoulder  my  rifle,  up  traps,  and  away." 
Next  day,  through  those  maples  the  settler's  axe  rung, 
While  slowly  the  hunter  trudged  off  as  he  sung, 
"  The  world's  wide  enough,  there  is  room  for  us  all ; 
Room  enough  in  the  green-wood,  if  not  in  the  hall. 
Room,  boys,  room,  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 
For  why  shouldn't  every  man  enjoy  his  own  room  ?" 


"FAR    AWAY." 

Air — "  Long  time  ago." 

THE  song — the  song  that  once  could  move  m 

In  life's  glad  day — 
The  song  of  her  who  used  to  love  me 

Far — far  away — 
It  makes  my  sad  heart,  fonder — fonder — 

Wildly  obey 
The  spell  that  wins  each  thought  to  wander 

Far,  fa»  away ! 

Once  more  upon  my  native  river 

The  moonbeams  play, 
Once  more  the  ripples  shine  as  ever 

Far,  far  away — 
But  ah,  the  friends  who  smiled  around  me, 

Where — where  are  they  ? 
Where  the  sweet  spell,  that  early  bound  me, 

Far — far  away  ? 

I  think  of  all  that  hope  once  taught  me — 
Too  bright  to  stay— 


FAR  AWAY."  143 


Of  all  that  music  fain  had  brought  me, 

Far  —  far  away  ! 
And  weep  to  feel  there's  no  returning 

Of  that  glad  day, 
Ere  all  that  brightened  life's  fresh  morning 

Was  far—  far  away. 


THE   SLEIGH   BELLS. 


MERRILY,  merrily  sound  the  bells 

As  o'er  the  ground  we  roll, 
And  the  snow-drift  breaks  in  silvery  flakes 

Before  our  cariole. 
When  wrapp'd  in  buffalos  soft  and  warm, 

With  mantle  and  tippet  dight, 
We  cheerily  cleave  the  fleecy  storm, 

Or  skim  in  the  cold  moonlight. 
Merrily,  merrily  !  Merrily,  merrily ! 

Merrily  sound  the  bells. 

Merrily,  merrily  sound  the  bells 

Upon  the  wind  without, 
When  the  wine  is  mull'd  and  the  waffle  cull'd, 

And  the  song  is  passed  about. 
While  rosy  lips  and  dimpled  cheeks 

The  welcome  joke  inspire, 
And  mirth  in  many  a  bright  eye  speaks 

Around  the  hickory  fire, 
Merrily,  merrily  !  Merrily,  merrily  ! 

Merrily  sound  the  bells. 


MORNING   HYMN 

"  LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  !"  The  Eternal  spoke, 

And  from  the  abyss  where  darkness  rode 
The  earliest  dawn  of  nature  broke, 

And  light  around  creation  flow'd. 
The  glad  earth  smiled  to  see  the  day, 

The  first-born  day  come  blushing  in, 
The  young  day  smiled  to  shed  its  ray 

Upon  a  world  untouch'd  by  sin. 

"  Let  there  be  light !"  O'er  heaven  and  earth, 

The  God  who  first  the  day-beam  pour'd, 
Utter'd  again  his  fiat  forth, 

And  shed  the  Gospel's  light  abroad. 
And,  like  the  dawn,  its  cheering  rays 

On  rich  and  poor  were  meant  to  fall, 
Inspiring  their  Redeemer's  praise 

In  lowly  cot  and  lordly  hall. 

Then  come,  when  in  the  orient  first 
Flushes  the  signal  light  for  prayer ; 

Come  with  the  earliest  beams  that  burst 

From  God's  bright  throne  of  glory  there. 
6-— 


146      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Come  kneel  to  him  who  through  the  night 
Hath  watch'd  above  thy  sleeping  soul, 

To  Him,  whose  mercies,  like  his  light, 
Are  shed  abroad  from  pole  to  pole. 


THE    STREAMLET. 


How  silently  yon  streamlet  slides 
From  out  the  twilight-shaded  bowers  ! 

How,  soft  as  sleep,  it  onward  glides 
In  sunshine  through  its  dreaming  flowers. 

That  tranquil  wave,  now  turn'd  to  gold 
Beneath  the  s-lowly  westering  sun, 

It  is  the  same,  far  on  the  wold, 
Whose  foam  this  morn  we  gazed  upon. 

The  leaden  sky,  the  barren  waste, 
The  torrent  we  this  morning  knew, 

How  changed  are  all !  as  now  we  haste 
To  bid  them,  with  the  day,  adieu  ! 

Ah !  thus  should  life  and  love  at  last 
Grow  bright  and  sweet  when  death  is  near : 

May  we,  our  course  of  trial  pass'd, 
Thus  bathed  in  beauty  glide  from  here  ! 


ST.   VALENTINE'S  DAY. 

THE  snow  yet  in  the  hollow  lies  ; 

But,  where  by  shelvy  hill  'tis  seen, 
In  myriad  rills  it  trickling  flies, 

To  lace  the  slope  with  threads  of  green, 
Down  in  the  meadow  glancing  wings 

Flit  in  the  sunshine  round  a  tree, 
Where  still  a  frosted  apple  clings, 

Regale  for  early  Chickadee  : 

And  chestnut  buds  begin  to  swell, 

Where  flying  squirrels  peep  to  know 
If  from  the  tree- top,  yet,  'twere  well 

To  sail  on  leathery  wing  below — 
As  gently  shy  and  timorsome, 

Still  holds  she  back  who  should  be  mine ; 
Come,  Spring,  to  her  coy  bosom,  come, 

And  warm  it  toward  her  Valentine  ! 

Come,  Spring,  and  with  the  breeze  that  calls 
The  wind-flower  by  the  hill-side  rill, 

The  soft  breeze  that  by  orchard  walls 
First  dallies  with  the  daffodil— 


ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY.  149 

Come  lift  the  tresses  from  her  cheek, 

And  let  me  see  the  blush  divine, 
That  mantling  there,  those  curls  would  seek 

To  hide  from  her  true  Valentine. 

Come  Spring,  and  with  the  Red-breast's  note, 

That  tells  of  bridal  tenderness, 
Where  on  the  breeze  he'll  warbling  float 

Afar  his  nesting  mate  to  bless — 
Come,  whisper  'tis  not  always  Spring ! 

When  birds  may  mate  on  every  spray — 
That  April  boughs  cease  blossoming ! 

With  love  it  is  not  always  May  ! 

Come,  touch  her  heart  with  thy  soft  tale, 

Of  tears  within  the  floweret's  cup, 
Of  fairest  things  that  soonest  fail, 

Of  hopes  we  vainly  garner  up — 
And  while,  that  gentle  heart  to  melt, 

Like  mingled  wreath,  such  tale  you  twine, 
Whisper  what  lasting  bliss  were  felt 

In  lot  shared  with  her  Valentine. 


THE    BLUSH. 


I  COULD  not  wish  that  in  thy  bosom  aught 

Should  e'er  one  moment's  transient  pain  awaken, 

Yet  can't  regret  that  thou — forgive  the  thought — 
As  flowers  when  shaken 

Will  yield  their  sweetest  fragrance  to  the  wind, 

Should,  ruffled  thus,  betray  thy  heavenly  mind. 

The  lilies  faintly  to  the  roses  yield, 

As  on  thy  thoughtful  cheek  they  struggling  vie, 
(Who  would  not  strive  upon  so  sweet  a  field 

To  win  the  mastery  ?) 

And  thoughts  are  in  thy  speaking  eyes  reveal'd, 
Pure  as  the  fount  the  prophet's  rod  unseal'd. 


THY    NAME. 


IT  comes  to  me  when  healths  go  round, 

And  o'er  the  wine  their  garlands  wreathing, 

The  flowers  of  wit,  with  music  wound, 
Are  freshly  from  the  goblet  breathing  ; 

From  sparkling  song  and  sally  gay 

It  comes  to  steal  my  heart  away, 

And  fill  my  soul,  mid  festal  glee, 

With  sad,  sweet,  silent  thoughts  of  thee. 

It  comes  to  me  upon  the  mart, 

Where  care  in  jostling  crowds  is  rife ; 
Where  Avarice  goads  the  sordid  heart, 
Or  cold  Ambition  prompts  the  strife ; 
It  comes  to  whisper  if  I'm  there, 
'Tis  but  with  thee  each  prize  to  share, 
For  Fame  were  not  success  to  me, 
Nor  riches  wealth,  unshared  with  thee. 

It  comes  to  me  when  smiles  are  bright 
On  gentle  lips  that  murmur  round  me, 

And  kindling  glances  flash  delight 

In  eyes  whose  spell  might  once  have  bound  me. 


152   SONGS  AND  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

It  comes — but  comes  to  bring  alone 
Remembrance  of  some  look  or  tone, 
Dearer  than  aught  I  hear  or  see, 
Because  'twas  worn  or  breathed  by  thee. 

It  comes  to  me  where  cloister'd  boughs 

Their  shadows  cast  upon  the  sod  ; 
Awhile  in  Nature's  fane  my  vows 

Are  lifted  from  her  shrine  to  God  ; 
It  comes  to  tell  that  all  of  worth, 
I  dream  in  heaven,  or  know  on  earth, 
However  bright  or  dear  it  be, 
Is  blended  with  my  thought  of  thee. 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  FLOWERS. 


TEACH  thee  their  language  !    sweet,  I  know  no 
tongue, 

No  mystic  art  those  gentle  things  declare, 
I  ne'er  could  trace  the  schoolman's  trick  among 

Created  things,  so  delicate  and  rare: 
Their  language  ?    Prythee  !  why  they  are  themselves 

But  bright  thoughts  syllabled  to  shape  and  hue, 
The  tongue  that  erst  was  spoken  by  tlie  elves, 

When  tenderness  as  yet  within  the  world  was  new. 

And  oh,  do  not  their  soft  and  starry  eyes — 

Now  bent  to  eaith,  to  heaven  now  meekly  plead 
ing— 
Their  incense  fainting  as  it  seeks  the  skies, 

Yet  still  from  earth  with  freshening  hope  receding — 
Say,  do  not  these  to  every  heart  declare, 

With  all  the  silent  eloquence  of  truth, 
The  language  that  they  speak  is  Nature's  prayer, 

To  give  her  back  those  spotless  days  of  youth  ? 


THE   CALL    OF   SPRING. 


THOU  wak'st  again,  oh  Earth  ! 

From  winter's  sleep  ! — 
Bursting  with  voice  of  mirth 

From  icy  keep ; 
And  laughing  at  the  Sun, 
Who  hath  their  freedom  won, 

Thy  waters  leap  ! 

Thou  wak'st  again,  oh  Earth ! 

Freshly  again, 
And  who  by  fireside  hearth 

Will  now  remain  ? 
Come  on  the  rosy  hours — 
Come  on  thy  buds  and  flowers 
As  when  in  Eden's  bowers 

Spring  first  did  reign. 
Birds  on  thy  breezes  chime 
Blithe  as  in  that  matin  time 

Their  choiring  begun : 
Earth,  thou  hast  many  a  prime- 
Man  hath  but  one  ! 


THE    CALL    OF    SPRING.  155 

Thou  wak'st  anew,  oh  Earth — 

Freshly  anew  ! 
As  when  at  Spring's  first  birth 

First  flow'rets  grew. 
Heart !  that  to  earth  dost  cling, 
While  boughs  are  blossoming, 

Why  wake  not  too  ? 

Long  thou  in  sloth  hast  lain, 
Listing  to  Love's  soft  strain — 

Wilt  thou  sleep  on  ? 
Playing,  thou  sluggard  heart, 
In  life  no  manly  part, 

Though  youth  be  gone. 
Wake !  'tis  Spring's  quickening  breath 

Now  o'er  thee  blown  ; 
Awake  thee  !  ere  thou  in  death 
Pulselessly  slumbereth, 
Pluck  thou  from  Glory's  wreath 

One  leaf  alone ! 


MONODY. 


WHEN  the  flowers  of  Friendship  or  Love  have  de- 

cay'd, 

In  the  heart  that  has  trusted  and  once  been  betray'd, 
No  sunshine  of  kindness  their  bloom  can  restore, 
For  the  verdure  of  feeling  will  quicken  no  more ! 

faope  cheated  too  often  when  life's  in  its  spring,"1-, 
[From  the  bosom  that  nursed  it/ojrevei;takes  wing_?r 
And  memory  comes,  as  its  promises  fade, 
To  brood  o'er  the  havoc  that  passion  has  made, — 

As  'tis  said  that  the  swallow  the  tenement  leaves 
Where  ruin  endangers  her  nest  in  the  eaves, 
While  the  desolate  owl  takes  her  place  on  the  wall, 
And  builds  in  the  mansion  that  nods  to  its  fall. 


LOVE'S    MEMORIES. 


TO-NIGHT  !   to-night !   what  memories  to-night 
Came  thronging  o'er  me  as  I  stood  near  thee. 
Thy  form  of  Loveliness,  thy  brow  of  light, 

Thy  voice's  thrilling  flow, 
All,  all  were  there ;  to  me — to  me  as  bright 
As  when  they  claim'd  my  soul's  idolatry 
Years,  long  years  ago ! 

That  gulf  of  years  !    Oh,  God  !   hadst  thou  been 

mine, 
Would  all  that's  precious  have  been  swallow'd 

there  ? 
Youth's  meteor  hope,  and  manhood's  high  design, 

Lost,  lost,  forever  lost — 

Lost  with  the  love  that  with  them  all  would  twine, 
The  love  that  left  no  harvest  but  despair — 
Unwon  at  such  a  cost ! 

Was  it  ideal,  that  wild,  wild  love  I  bore  thee  ? 
Or  thou  thyself— didst  thou  my  soul  enthral  ? 
Such  as  thou  art  to-night  did  I  adore  thee  ! 


158     SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Ay,  idolize — in  vain  ! 

Such  as  thou  art  to-night — could  time  restore  me 
That  wealth  of  loving — shouldst  thou  have  it  all, 
To  waste  perchance  again  ? 

No  !    Thou  didst  break  the  coffers  of  my  heart, 

And  set  so  lightly  by  the  hoard  within, 
That  /  too  learn'd  at  last  the  squanderer's  art, — 

Went  idly  here  and  there, 
Filing  my  soul  and  lavishing  a  part 
On  each,  less  cold  than  thou,  who  cared  to  win 
And  seemed  to  prize  a  share. 

No  !   Thou  didst  wither  up  my  flowering  youth. 

If  blameless,  still  the  bearer  of  a  bli'ht ! 
The  unconscious  agent  of  the  deadliest  ruth 

That  human  heart  hath  riven  ! 
Teaching  me  scorn  of  my  own  spirit's  truth  ! 
Holding — not  me — but  that  fond  worship  light 
Which  link'd  my  soul  to  Heaven  ! 

No  ! — No  ! — For  me  the  weakest  heart  before 

One  so  untonch'd  by  tenderness  as  thine  ! 
Angels  have  enter'd  through  the  frail  tent  door 

That  pass  the  palace  now — 

And  HE  who  spake  the  words,  "  Go  sin  no  more," 
'Mid  human  passions  saw  the  spark  divine, 
But  not  in  such  as  THOU  ! 


WRITTEN  IN  A  LADY'S  PRAYER 
BOOK. 


THY  thoughts  are  Heavenward !  and  thy  heart,  they 
say, 

Which  love,  oh  !  more  than  mortal,  fail'd  to  move, 
Now  in  its  precious  casket  melts  away, 

And  owns  the  impress  of  a  Saviour's  love ! 

Many,  in  days  gone  by,  full  many  a  prayer, 

Pure,  though  impassion'd,  has  been  breathed  for 
thee 

By  one  who  once  thy  hallow'd  name  would  dare 
Prefer  with  his  to  the  Divinity. 

Requite  them  now — not  with  an  earthly  love — 
But  since  with  that  his  lot  thou  mayst  not  bless, 

Ask— what  he  dare  not  pray  for  from  above— 
For  him  the  mercy  of  Forgetfulness. 


ANACREONTIC. 

TO  Ka\\t<rTov  [jilv  vdwp. — Pindar. 

BLAME  not  the  Bowl— the  fruitful  Bowl ! 

Whence  wit,  and  mirth,  and  music  spring, 
And  amber  drops  elysian  roll, 

To  bathe  young  Love's  delighted  wing. 
What,  like  the  grape  Osiris  gave, 

Makes  rigid  age  so  lithe  of  limb  ? 
Illumines  memory's  tearful  wave, 

And  teaches  drowning  hope  to  swim  ? 
Did  Ocean  from  his  radiant  arms 

To  earth  another  Venus  give, 
He  ne'er  could  match  the  mellow  charms 

That  in  the  breathing  beaker  live. 

Like  burning  thoughts  which  lovers  hoard 
In  characters  that  mock  the  sight, 

Till  some  kind  liquid,  o'er  them  pour'd, 
Brings  all  their  hidden  warmth  to  light — 

Are  feelings  bright,  which,  in  the  cup 
Though  graven  deep,  appear  but  dim, 


ANACREONTIC.  161 

Till  fill'd  with  glowing  Bacchus  up, 
They  sparkle  on  the  foaming  brim. 

Each  drop  upon  the  first  you  pour 
Brings  some  new  tender  thought  to  life, 

And  as  you  fill  it  more  and  more, 
The  last  with  fervid  soul  is  rife. 

The  island  fount,  that  kept  of  old 

Its  fabled  path  beneath  the  sea, 
And  fresh,  as  first  from  earth  it  roll'd, 

From  earth  again  rose  joyously  ; 
Bore  not  beneath  the  bitter  brine, 

Each  flower  upon  its  limpid  tide, 
More  faithfully  than  in  bright  wine, 

Our  hearts  will  toward  each  other  glide. 
Then  drain  the  cup,  and  let  thy  soul 

Learn,  as  the  draught  delicious  flies, 
Like  pearls  in  the  Egyptian's  bowl, 

Truth  beaming  at  the  bottom  lies. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  DROWNED. 

DOWN,  far  down,  in  the  waters  deep, 
Where  the  booming  surges  above  us  sweep, 
Our  revels  from  n;0'ht  till  morn  we  keep  : 
And  though  with  us  the  cup  goes  round 
Upon  every  shore  where  the  blue  waves  sound, 
Yet  here,  as  it  passes  from  lip  to  lip, 
Alone  is  found  true  fellowship  ; 
For  only  the  Dead,  where'er  they  range, 
"Tis  the  Dead  alone  who  never  change. 

What  boots  your  pledges,  ye  sons  of  Earth  ; 
Or  to  whom  ye  drink  in  your  hours  of  mirth, 
When  gather'd  around  your  festal  hearth? 
Ye  fill  to  love !  and  the  toast  ye  give 
Will  hardly  the  fumes  of  your  wine  outlive ! 
To  friendship  fill !  and  its  tale  is  told, 
Almost  ere  the  pledge  on  your  lip  grows  cold  ! 
For  only  the  Dead,  where'er  they  range, 
'Tis  the  Dead  alone,  who  never  change. 

Then  come,  when  the  '  bolt  of  death  is  hurl'd,' 
Come  down  to  us  from  that  bleak,  bleak  world, 

_ 6 


THE    SONG    OF    THE    DROWNED.       163 

Where  the  wings  of  sorrow  are  never  furled  : 
Come,  and  we'll  drink  to  the  shades  of  the  past  ; 
To  the  hopes  that  mock'd  in  life  to  the  last ; 
To  the  lips  and  the  eyes  we  once  would  adore, 
And  the  loves  that  in  death  can  delude  no  more ! 
For  the  Dead,  the  Dead,  wherever  they  range, 
'Tis  only  the  Dead  who  never  change. 


NO  MORE— NO  MORE. 


No  more — no  more  of  song  to-night ; 

Oh,  let  no  more  thy  music  flow  ! 
Those  notes  that  once  could  wake  delight, 
Come  o'er  me  like  a  spirit-blight, 
A  breathing  of  the  faded  past, 
Whose  freshest  hopes  to  earth  were  cast 

Long,  long  ago. 

A  livelier  strain  !  nay,  play  instead, 

That  movement  wild  and  low, 
That  chanting  for  the  early  dead 
Which  best  beseems  spring's  blossoms  fled, 
A  requiem  for  each  tender  ray 
That  from  life's  morning  stole  away 
Long,  long  ago. 


A  HUNTER'S  MATIN. 


UP,  comrades,  up  !   the  morn's  awake 

Uppn  the  mountain  side, 
The  curlew's  wing  hath  swept  the  lake, 
And  the  deer  has  left  the  tangled  brake, 

To  drink  from  the  limpid  tide. 
Up,  comrades,  up  !  the  mead-lark's  note 
And  the  plover's  cry  o'er  the  prairie  float, 
The  squirrel  he  springs  from  his  covert  now 
To  prank  it  away  on  the  chestnut  bough, 
Where  the  oriole's  pendent  nest  high  up, 

Is  rock'd  on  the  swaying  trees, 
While  the  humbird  sips  from  the  harebell's  cup, 

As  it  bends  to  the  morning  breeze. 
Up,  comrades,  up  !  our  shallops  grate 

Upon  the  pebbly  strand, 
And  our  stalwart  hounds  impatient  wait 

To  spring  from  the  huntsman's  hand. 


MY  BIRCHEN  BARK 


NEGRO  MELODY. 

MY  birchen  bark,  my  birchen  bark  ! 

When  Fortune  first  made  Love  a  rover, 
He  shaped  it  for  his  own  trim  ark 

To  float  Care's  deluge  gayly  over. 
Then  leave  the  boasting  pioneer 

To  hew  his  skiff  from  yonder  pine, 
And,  dearest,  with  young  Love  to  steer, 

Become  a  passenger  in  mine  : 
In  swan-like  grace  thy  form  resembling — 
With  joy  beneath  thy  sweet  limbs  trembling — 
For  lightsome  heart,  oh,  such  a  boat 
On  summer  wave  did  never  float ! 

Think'st  thou,  my  love,  that  painted  barge, 
With  gaudy  pennant  flaunting  o'er  her, 

Could  kiss,  like  her,  the  flowery  marge, 
Nor  break  the  foam-bells  formed  before  her  ? 

Look,  sweet,  the  very  lotus-cup, 

Trembling  as  if  with  bliss  o'erbrimm'd, 


MY    BIRCHEN    BARK.  167 

Seemed  now  almost  to  buoy  her  up 

As  o'er  the  heart-shaped  leaves  we  skimm'd — 
Those  floating  hearts,  beside  their  flowers, 
Half  bear  the  boat  and  both  of  ours  ! 
For  lightsome  heart,  oh,  such  a  boat 
On  summer  wave  did  never  float ! 


THE    YACHTER. 

MY  bark  is  my  courser  so  gallant  and  brave  ; 
Like  a  steed  of  the  prairie  she  bounds  o'er  the  wave, 
And  the  breast  of  the  billow,  as  onward  I  roam, 
Swelling  proudly  to  meet  her,  is  fleck'd  by  her  foam. 

Like  the  winds  which  her  canvass  exultingly  fill, 
I  float  as  I  list,  and  I  rove  as  I  will ; 
The  breeze  cannot  baffle,  for  with  it  I  veer, 
Or  in  the  wind's  eye  like  the  petrel  I  steer. 

O'er  the  pages  of  story  the  student  may  pore, 
The  trumpet  the  soldier  may  charm  to  the  war, 
In  the  forest  the  hunter  his  heaven  may  see, 
But  the  bounding  blue  water  and  shallop  for  me. 

With  no  haven  before  me — beneath  me  my  home — 
All  heaven  around  me  wherever  I  roam, 
I  am  free— I  am  free  as  the  shrill  piping  gale, 
That  whistles  its  music  as  onward  I  sail. 


BOAT   SONG. 


WE  court  no  gale  with  wooing  sail, 

We  fear  no  squall  a-brewing  ; 
Seas  smooth  or  rough,  skies  fair  or  bluff, 

Alike  our  course  pursuing. 
For  what  to  us  are  winds,  when  thus 

Our  merry  boat  is  flying, 
While,  bold  and  free,  with  jocund  glee, 

Stout  hearts  her  oars  are  plying ! 

At  twilight  dun,  when  red  the  sun 

Far  o'er  the  water  flashes, 
With  buoyant  song,  our  bark  along 

His  crimson  pathway  dashes. 
And  when  the  night  devours  the  light, 

And  shadows  thicken  o'er  us, 
The  stars  steal  out,  the  skies  about, 

To  dance  to  our  bold  chorus. 

Sometimes,  near  shore,  we  ease  our  oar, 

While  beauty's  sleep  invading, 
To  watch  the  beam  through  her  casement  gleam, 

As  she  wakes  to  our  serenading  ; 


170      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Then,  with  the  tide,  we  floating  glide 

To  music  soft,  receding, 
Or  drain  one  cup,  to  her  fill'd  up, 

For  whom  these  notes  are  pleading. 

Thus,  on  and  on,  till  the  night  is  gone, 

And  the  garish  dawn  is  breaking  ; 
While  landsmen  sleep,  we  boatmen  keep 

The  soul  of  frolic  waking. 
And  though  cheerless  then  our  craft  look,  when 

To  her  moorings  day  hath  brought  her, 
By  the  moon  amain  she  is  launch'd  again, 

To  dance  o'er  the  merry  water. 


WHERE  DOST  THOU  LOITER, 
SPRING  ? 


WHERE  dost  thou  loiter,  Spring, 

Whilst  it  behoveth 
Thee  to  cease  wandering 

Where  thy  breeze  roveth, 
And  to  my  lady  bring 

The  flowers  she  loveth. 

Come  with  thy  melting  skies, 
Like  her  cheek,  blushing, 

Come  with  thy  dewy  eyes 
Where  founts  are  gushing  ; 

Come  where  the  wild  bee  hies 
When  dawn  is  flushing. 

Lead  her  where,  by  the  brook, 
The  first  blossom  keepeth, 

Where,  in  the  shelter'd  nook, 
The  callow  bud  sleepeth, 

Or  with  a  timid  look 

Through  its  leaves  peepeth. 


172      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Lead  her  whereon  the  spray 

Blithely  carolling, 
First  birds  their  roundelay 

For  my  lady  sing — 
But  keep,  where'er  she  stray 

True  love  blossoming. 


CHANSONNET  TE. 


IT  haunts  me  yet !   that  early  dream 

Of  first  fond  Love ! 
Like  the  ice  that  floats  on  a  summer  stream 

From  frozen  fount  above, 
Through  my  river  of  life  'twill  drifting  gleam, 

Wherever  its  waves  may  flow  ; 
Flashing  athwart  each  sunny  hour 
With  a  strangely  bright  but  chilling  power, 

Ever  and  ever  to  mock  their  tide 
With  its  illusive  glow  : 

A  fragment  of  hopes  that  were  petrified  ^ 
Long — long  ago  ! 


WAKE,   LADY,  WAKE! 

WRITTEN   FOR  AN  AIR  IN  DER   FREISCHUTZ. 

WAKE,  Lady,  wake  !   the  stars  on  high 

Are  twinkling  in  the  vaulted  sky, 

The  dew  drops  on  the  leafy  spray 

Are  trembling  in  the  moon's  cold  ray  ; 

But  what  to  me  are  dewy  skies 

And  moon  and  stars,  unless  thine  eyes 

Will  waken,  to  rival  the  heaven's  blue, 

And  the  stars  and  moon  in  their  brightness  too  ? 

Wake,  Lady,  wake  !  the  murmuring  breeze 
Is  soft  among  the  swaying  trees  ; 
And  with  the  sound  of  brooks  is  heard 
The  note  of  evening's  lonely  bird  : 
But  thy  loved  voice  is  sweeter  far, 
Than  whispering  woods  or  breezes  are, 
Or  the  silver  sound  of  the  tinkling  rill, 
Or  the  plaintive  call  of  the  whippoorwill. 

Wake,  Lady  *  or  my  heart  alone 
Will,  like  a  lute  that's  lost  its  tone, 


WAKE,  LADY,  WAKE!  175 

To  nature's  touch  refuse  to  sound, 

While  all  her  works  rejoice  around  :• 

How  can  I  prize  the  brightest  spot, 

If  I  am  there,  but  thou  art  not  ? 

Then  while  through  thy  lattice  the  moonbeams  break, 

'Tis  thy  lover  that  calls  thee,  wake,  Lady,  wake ! 


SERENADE. 


SLEEPING  !    why  now  sleeping  ? 
The  moon  herself  looks  gay, 

While  through  thy  lattice  peeping  ; 
Wilt  not  her  call  obey  1 

Wake,  love,  each  star  is  keeping 
For  thee  its  brightest  ray  ; 

And  languishes  the  gleaming 

From  fire-flies  now  streaming 
Athwart  the  dewy  spray. 

Awake,  the  skies  are  weeping 
Because  thou  art  away, 

But  if  of  me  thou'rt  dreaming, 
Sleep,  loved  one,  while  you  may ! 

And  music's  wings  shall  hover 

Softly  thy  sweet  dreams  over, 
Fanning  dark  thoughts  away, 

While,  dearest,  'tis  thy  lover 
Who'll  bid  each  bright  one  stay. 


THE  BROOK  AND  THE  PINE. 

TELL  me,  fair  Brook,  that  long  hast  sung, 

To  yonder  Pine  hast  sung  so  sweetly — 
Are  its  wild  arms  more  near  thee  flung, 

When  night  their  motion  veils  completely  ? 
Or,  for  the  morn's  caressing  rays 

Still  eager,  will  it  toss  its  boughs, — 
Like  hearts  that  only  beat  for  praise, 

All  heedless  of  affection's  vows  ? 

I  never  pause — the  Brook  replied — 

To  know  how  near  it  bends  above  me, 
I  cannot  help,  whate'er  betide, 

To  sing  for  one  I  fain  would  love  me ; 
My  song  flows  on,  and  still  must  flow, 

My  chosen  Pine  with  truth  to  bless, 
Though  rippling  pebbles  sometimes  show 

The  brook  athirst  with  tenderness  : 

Nay  more — when  thus,  while  troublous,  oft 
My  wavelets  flash  some  ray  redeeming, 

I  think  but  of  the  Pine  aloft, 

Which  first  will  proudly  hail  its  beaming ! 


]78      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

And,  wasted  thus,  a  joy  it  is 

To  know  my  pine, — refresh'd  and  bright, 
While  t  distill'd  each  dewy  kiss — 

Is  worthy  of  all  glorious  light ! 


THINK  OF  ME,  DEAREST. 


THINK  of  me,  dearest,  when  day  is  breaking 

Away  from  the  sable  chains  of  night, 
When  the  sun,  his  ocean-couch  forsaking, 
Like  a  giant  first  in  his  strength  awaking, 

Is  flinging  abroad  his  limbs  of  light ; 
As  the  breeze  that  first  travels  with  morning  forth, 
Giving  life  to  her  steps  o'er  the  quickening  earth — 
As  the  dream  that  has  cheated  thy  soul  through  the 

night, 
Let  me  come  fresh  in  thy  thoughts  with  the  light. 


Think  of  me,  dearest,  when  day  is  sinking 

In  the  soft  embrace  of  twilight  gray, 
When  the  starry  eyes  of  heaven  are  winking, 
And  the  weary  flowers  their  tears  are  drinking, 
As  they  start  like  gems  on  the  star-lit  spray. 
Let  me  come  warm  in  thy  thoughts  at  eve, 
As  the  glowing  track  which  the  sunbeams  leave, 
When  they,  blushing,  tremble  along  the  deep 
While  stealing  away  to  their  place  of  sleep. 


180      SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS 

Think  of  me,  dearest,  when  round  thee  smiling 
Are  eyes  that  melt  while  they  gaze  on  thee ; 

When  words  are  winning  and  looks  are  wiling, 

And  those  words  and  looks,  of  others,  beguiling 
Thy  fluttering  heart  from  love  and  me. 

Let  me  come,  true  in  thy  thoughts  in  that  hour ; 

Let  my  trust    and   my  faith — my  devotion — have 
power, 

When  all  that  can  lu*e  to  thy  young  soul  is  nearest, 

To  summon  each  truant  thought  back  to  me,  dearest. 


Q — 


AWAY  TO  THE  FOREST. 

AWAY  to  the  forest,  away,  love,  away  ! 
My  foam-champing  courser  reproves  thy  delay, 
And  the  brooks  are  all  calling,  Away,  love,  away ! 
Away  to  the  forest,  my  own  love,  with  me  ! 
Away  where  thro'  checker'd  glade  sports  the  wind 
free, 

Where  in  the  bosky  dell 
Watching  young  leaflets  sM^ll, 
Spring  on  each  floral  bell 
Counteth  for  thee 

Away  to  the  forest,  away ! 

Away  to  the  forest,  away,  love,  away  ! 
Each  breath  of  the  morning  reproves  thy  delay  ; 
Each  shadow  retiring  beckons  away  ! 
Hark !  how  the  blue-bird's  throat  caroling^p'er  us 
Chimes  with  the  thrush's  note  floating  before  us ! 
Away  then,  my  gentle  one, 
Thy  voice  is  miss'd  alone. 
Away — let  love's  whisper'd  tone 
Swell  the  bright  chorus, 

Away  to  the  forest,  away ! 


THE    WAXEN    ROSE.* 


Go,  mocking  flower, 

Thou  plastic  child  of  art, 
Back  to  thy  lady's  bower; 
Go  and  ask  if  thou, 
False  rose,  art  proven  now 
An  emblem  of  her  heart  ? 

Tell  her,  that  like  thee 

That  heart's  of  little  worth, 
However  kind  it  be, 

Which  any  hand  with  skill 
May  mould  unto  its  will : 
Too  pliant  from  its  birth. 

Go,  cheating  blossom, 

Scentless  as  morning  dew, 
Go  ask  if  in  her  bosom, 

Although  love's  bud  may  be 
In  brightness  like  to  thee, 
It  owns  no  fragrance  too. 

*  "  Go,  lovely  rose." — WALLE. 


THE    WAXEN    ROSE.  183 

But  if  fadeless,  yet 

Still,  still  her  love  blooms  on ; 
Tell  her— oh,  ne'er  forget 

To  tell  her,  from  my  heart 
Affection  will  not  part 
When  all  life's  flowers  are  gone. 


MYNE  HEARTTE. 


I  SOMMETYMES  thinnke  thye  womannes  artte 

Hathe  fromme  mye  bosomme  whytchd  my  heartte, 

Yt  dothe  soe  oftenne  feele  to  mee 

Lyke  caskette  where  no  jewelles  be, 

Or,  oceanne  shelle  wilk  breathes  dystresse 

I  ween  fromme  verye  emptynesse  ; 

And  thenne  I  wishe  sic  faythlesse  heartte 

Of  mee  hadde  never  been  a  parte. 

And  sommetymes  doe  I  thynnke  yts  tyde 

Is  bye  thye  coldness  petryfyd  ; 

Or,  thatte  thyne  eyne  scorche  uppe  ye  sayme 

Fromme  healthfulle  boundynges  through  mye  fraym 

Yt  laggs  soe  in  its  course  lyke  staynes, 

Wilk  blushynge  creepe  through  cowardes  veynes  ; 

And  thenne  I  thynke  that  sic  an  heartte 

Of  manne  hadde  bettere  notte  be  parte. 

And  sommetymes  doe  I  thynke  'twere  welle 
Thys  heartte  shouldde  breake  beneathe  thye  spelle, 
Since  lonnge  yt  onlye  thoughtes  of  payne 
Hathe  sentte  untoe  my  wearye  brainne. 


MYNE    HKARTTE. 


183 


Soe  manaye  that  ye  sabel  suite 
Dothe  crowde  mye  reasonne  fromme  her  seatte, 
And  mayke  me  thynnke  I'd  rayther  parte 
Wythe  lyfe  in  sic  an  faythelesse  heartte. 


THE   LOVER'S    STAR. 


DANISH  AIR. 

OH,  when,  'mid  thy  wild  fancy's  dreaming 
Life's  meteors  around  the©  are  streaming, 
Thy  tears  still  belie  the  false  beaming 

That  fain  would  thy  spirit  control — 
Look,  look  to  that  lone  light  above  thee, 
The  star  that  seems  set  there  to  love  thee, 

Look  there,  and  I  am  with  thee  in  soul ! 
Look,  look,  &c. 

And  if,  when  thus  wilder'd,  thou  turnest, 
To  lean  on  the  true  and  the  earnest — 
The  friend  for  whom  vainly  thou  yearn-est 

Has  pass'd  like  a  mist  from  life's  strand.— 
Oh,  come,  come  again  to  me,  dearest ! 
Thou  still  to  my  soul  shalt  be  nearest, 

All  mine  in  that  bright  spirit-land  ! 
Oh  !  come,  come  again,  &c. 


THE    INVITATION. 

WEND,  love,  with  me,  to  the  deep  woods  wend, 

Where  far  in  the  forest  the  wild  flowers  keep, 
Where  no  watching  eye  shall  over  us  bend, 

Save  the  blossoms  that  into  thy  bower  may  peep. 
Thou  shalt  gather  from  buds  of  the  oriole's  hue, 

Whose  flaming  wings  round  our  pathway  flit, 
From  the  saffron  orchis  and  lupin  blue, 

And  those  like  the  foam  on  my  courser's  bit. 

One  steed  and  one  saddle  us  both  shall  bear, 

One  hand  of  each  on  the  bridle  meet ; 
And  beneath  the  wrist  that  entwines  me  there, 

An  answering  pulse  from  my  heart  shall  beat. 
I  will  sing  thee  many  a  joyous  lay, 

As  we  chase  the  deer  by  the  blue  lake-side, 
While  the  winds  that  over  the  prairie  play 

Shall  fan  the  cheek  of  my  woodland  bride. 

Our  home  shall  be  by  the  cool,  bright  streams, 
Where  the  beaver  chooses  her  safe  retreat, 

And  our  hearth  shall  smile  like  the  sun's  warm  gleams 
Through  the  branches  around  our  lodge  that  meet. 


188     SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Then  wend  with  me,  to  the  deep  woods  wend, 
Where  far  in  the  forest  the  wild  flowers  keep, 

Where  no  watching  eye  shall  over  us  bend, 
Save  the  blossoms  that  into  thy  bower  may  peep . 


THE    LOVE    TEST. 


I  THOUGHT  she  was  wayward — inconstant  in  part, 
But  thought  not  the  weakness  e'er  reached  to  her 

heart ; 

'Twas  a  lightness  of  mood  which  but  tempted  a  lover 
The  more  the  true  way  to  that  heait  to  discover. 

What  changeful  seem'd  there,  was  the  play  of  the 

wave 

Which  veileth  the  depth  of  the  firm  ocean  cave ; 
I  cared  not  how  fitful  that  light  wave  might  flow, 
I  would  dive  for  the  pearl  of  affection  below. 

I  won  it,  methought !  and  now  welcome  the  strife, 
The  burthen,  the  toil,  the  worst  struggles  of  life ; 
Come  trouble — come  sorrow — come  pain  and  despair, 
We  divide  ills,  that  each  for  the  other  would  bear ! 

I  believed — I  could   SWEAR  there  was  that  in  her 

breast, 
That  soul  of  wild  feeling,  which  needs  but  the  test, 


190   SONGS  AND  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

To  leap  like  a  falchion — bright,  glowing,  and  true, 
To  the  hand  which  its  worth  and  its  temper  best 
knew. 

And  what  was  the  struggle  which  tested  love's  power  ? 
What  fortune,  so  soon,  could  bring  trial's  dark  hour  ? 
Did  some  shadow  of  evil  first  make  her  heart  quail  1 
Or  the  WORST  prove  at  once  that  her  truth  could 
ne'er  fail  ? 

I  painted  it  sternly,  the  lot  she  might  share  ! 
I  took  from  LOVE'S  wing  all  the  gloss  it  may  bear ; 
I  told  her  how  often  his  comrade  is  CARE  ! 
I  appeal'd  to  her  heart — and  her  heart  it  was — 
WHERE  ? 


AFTERTHOUGHT. 


WHAT  though  I  sigh  to  think  that  after  all 
'Twas  half  some  erring  fancy  of  the  mind, 

Half  that  illusion  which  they  *  love '  miscall 
Whose  sense  dreams  not  of  sentiment  refined : 

They  to  whom  ne'er  that  gush  of  soul  was  given 

Which  melts  the  heart  to  mould  it  but  for  Heaven- 

What  though  to  think  it  was  but  this  perchance 
Prompts  the  half-wistful— half-disdainful  sigh  ; 

Makes  the  fond  tone — the  tear — the  tender  glance 
Seem  less  than  valueless  in  memory : 

Still  would  I  rather  my  love  ran  to  waste 

Than  she  I  love  '  love's  bitterness  *  should  taste. 


SEEK  NOT  TO  UNDERSTAND  HER. 

WHY  seek  her  heart  to  understand, 

If  bat  enough  thou  knowest 
To  prove  that  all  thy  love,  like  sand, 

Upon  the  wind  thou  throwest  ? 
The  ill  thou  raakest  out  at  last 
Doth  but  reflect  the  bitter  past, 
While  all  the  good  thou  learnest  yet 
But  makes  her  harder  to  forget. 

What  matters  all  the  nobleness 

Which  in  her  breast  resideth, 
And  what  the  warmth  of  tenderness 

Her  mien  of  coldness  hideth, 
If  but  ungenerous  thoughts  prevail 
When  thou  her  bosom  wouldst  assail, 
While  tenderness  and  warmth  doth  ne'er 
By  any  chance  toward  thee  appear  1 

Sum  up  each  token  thou  hast  won 

Of  kindred  feeling  there — 
How  few  for  Hope  to  build  upon, 

How  many  for  Despair ! 


SEEK    NOT    TO    UNDERSTAND    HER.    393 

And  if  e'er  word  or  look  declareth 
Love  or  aversion  which  she  beareth, 
While  of  the  first  no  proof  thou  hast 
How  many  are  there  of  the  last ! 

Then  strive  no  more  to  understand 
Her  heart,  of  which  thou  knowest 

Enough  to  prove  thy  love,  like  sand, 
Upon  the  wind  thou  throwest : 

The  ill  thou  makest  out  at  last 

Doth  but  reflect  the  bitter  past, 

While  all  the  good  thou  learnest  yet 

But  makes  her  harder  to  forget. 


WITHERING,  WITHERING. 


WITHERING — withering — all  are  withering — 

.All  of  hope's  flowers  that  youth  hath  nursed ; 
Flowers  of  love  too  early  blossoming ; 

Buds  of  ambition,  too  frail  to  burst. 
Faintily — faintily — ah !  how  faintily 

I  feel  life's  pulses  ebb  and  flow : 
Yet,  sorrow,  I  know  thou  dealest  daintily 

With  one  who  should  not  wish  to  live  raoe. 

Nay !  why,  young  heart,  thus  timidly  shrinking  ? 

Why  doth  thy  upward  wing  thus  tire  ? 
Why  are  thy  pinions  so  droopingly  sinking, 

When  they  should  only  waft  thee  higher  ? 
Upward — upward,  let  them  be  waving, 

Lifting  thy  soul  toward  her  place  of  birth : 
There  are  guerdons  there  more  worth  thy  having, 

Far  more  than  any  these  lures  of  earth. 


A  PLACE  FOR  ME. 

A  PLACE  for  me — one  place  for  me, 

Within  that  young  wild  heart  be  kept ; 
Howe'er  Affection's  chords  may  there 

By  other  hands  than  mine  be  swept : 
However  unto  Love's  mad  thrill 

Their  music  may  responsive  be, 
As  now  let  sober  Friendship  still 

Preserve  one  note — one  place  for  me. 

When  thy  bright  spirit,  grave  or  gay, 

Some  other  chains  delighted  near, 
To  catch  thy  features'  varying  play, 

And  watch  each  lightning  thought  appear, 
However  thou  his  soul  mayst  touch, 

Let  him  not  wholly  thine  enthrall 
From  one  who  ever  loved  so  much 

To  chase  its  meteor  windings  all. 

When  in  some  scene  where  Nature  flings 
Her  loveliest  enchantments  round, 

And  in  thy  kindling  soul  upsprings 
Thoughts  which  no  mortal  breast  can  bound  ; 


196     SONQS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

Or  when  upon  some  deathless  page 
Thy  mind  communes  with  kindred  mind, 

Still  let  me  there  one  thought  engage, 
And  round  thy  soaring  spirit  wind. 

When  first  the  bride-like  dawn  is  blushing 

Within  the  arms  of  joyous  day, 
Or  when  the  twilight  dews  are  hushing 

His  footsteps  o'er  the  hills  away ; 
When  from  the  fretted  vault  above, 

God's  ever  burning  lamps  are  hung, 
And  when  in  dreams  of  Heaven  and  love, 

His  mercies  are  around  thee  flung ; 

A  place  for  me — one  place  for  me, 

Within  thy  memory  live  enshrined, 
Whatever  idols  Time  may  raise 

Upon  the  altars  of  thy  mind. 
And  while  youth's  hopes  before  me  sweep, 

Like  bubbles  on  a  freshening  sea — 
My  bark  of  life  shall  ever  keep 

One  sacred  berth  for  thee— for  thee 


"OUR  FRIENDSHIP." 

IT  will  endure  !    It  hath  the  seal  upon  it 

That  once  alone  in  life  is  ever  set ; 
It  will  endure  !  we  both  by  suffering  won  it ! 

It  will  endure — for  neither  can  forget. 

It  must  endure  !   for  is  not  Truth  immortal  ? 

And  those  same  tears  which  saw  our  hopes  depart, 
Brought  her,  the  comforter,  from  Heaven's  bright 
portal, 

In  rainbow  radiance  spanning  heart  to  heart ! 


MY   DOG. 


AN  ear  that  caught  my  slightest  tone, 

In  kindness  or  in  anger  spoken ; 
An  eye  that  ever  watch'd  my  own, 

In  vigils  death  alone  has  broken  ; 
Its  changeless,  ceaseless,  and  unbought 

Affection  to  the  last  revealing ; 
Beaming  almost  with  human  thought, 

And  more — far  more  than  human  feeling ! 

Can  such  in  endless  sleep  be  chill'd, 

And  mortal  pride  disdain  to  sorrow, 
Because  the  pulse  that  here  was  still'd 

May  wake  to  no  immortal  morrow ! 
Can  faith,  devotedness,  and  love, 

That  seem  to  humbler  creatures  given 
To  tell  us  what  we  owe  above, — 

The  types  of  what  is  due  to  Heaven, — 

Can  these  be  with  the  things  that  were, 

Things  cherish'd — but  no  more  returning, 
And  leave  behind  no  trace  of  care, 

No  shade  that  speaks  a  moment's  mourning  ? 
...j 


MY    D  0  O  .  199 

Alas !  my,  friend,  of  all  of  worth 

That  years  have  stolen  or  years  yet  leave  me, 
I've  never  known  so  much  on  earth, 

But  that  the  loss  of  thine  must  grieve  me. 


A  PORTRAIT. 

NOT  hers  the  charms  which  Laura's  lover  drew, 
Or  Titian's  pencil  on  the  canvass  threw  ; 
No  soul  enkindled  beneath  southern  skies 
Glow'd  on  her  cheek  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes ; 
No  prurient  charms  set  off  her  slender  form 
With  swell  voluptuous  and  with  contour  warm ; 
While  each  proportion  was  by  Nature  told 
In  maiden  beauty's  most  bewitching  mould. 
High  on  her  peerless  brow— a  radiant  throne 
Unmix'd  with  aught  of  earth— pale  genius  sat  alone 
And  yet  at  times,  within  her  eye  there  dwelt 
Softness  that  would  the  sternest  bosom  melt, 
A  depth  of  tenderness  which  show'd,  when  woke, 
That  woman  there  as  well  as  angel  spoke. 
Yet  well  that  eye  could  flash  resentment's  rays, 
Or,  proudly  scornful,  check  the  boldest  gaze  ; 
Chill  burning  passion  with  a  calm  disdain, 
Or  with  one  glance  rekindle  it  again. 
Her  mouth — O  !  never  fascination  met 
Near  woman's  lips  half  so  alluring  yet : 
For  round  her  mouth  there  play'd,  at  times,  a  smile, 
Such  as  did  man  from  Paradise  beguile ; 
* 


A    PORTRAIT.  201 

Such,  could  it  light  him  through  this  world  of  pain, 
As  he'd  not  barter  Eden  to  regain. 
What  though  that  smile  might  beam  alike  on  all ; 
What  though  that  glance  on  each  as  kindly  fall ; 
What  though  you  knew,  while  worshipping  their 

power, 

Your  homage  but  the  pastime  of  the  hour, 
Still  they,  however  guarded  were  the  heart, 
Could  every  feeling  from  its  fastness  start — 
Deceive  one  still,  howe'er  deceived  before, 
And  make  him  wish  thus  to  be  cheated  more, 
Till,  grown  at  last  in  such  illusions  gray, 
Faith  follow 'd  Hope  and  stole  with  Love  away. 
Such  was  Alinda ;  such  in  her  combined 
Those  charms  which  round  our  very  nature  wind  ; 
Which,  when  together  they  in  one  conspire, 
He  who  admires  must  love — who  sees,  admire. 
Variably  perilous  ;  upon  the  sight 
Now  beam'd  her  beauty  in  resistless  light, 
And  subtly  now  into  the  heart  it  stole, 
And,  ere  it  startled,  occupied  the  whole. 
'Twas  well  for  her,  that  lovely  mischief,  well 
That  she  could  not  the  pangs  it  waken'd  tell ; 
That,  like  the  princess  in  the  fairy  tale, 
No  soft  emotions  could  her  soul  assail ; 
For  Nature, — that  Alinda  should  not  feel 
The  wounds  her  eyes  might  make,  but  never  heal, — 
In  mercy,  while  she  did  each  gift  impart 
Of  rarest  excellence,  withheld  a  heart ! 


BUENA   VISTA. 

[Supposed  to  be  written  by  a  Mexican  Prisoner 
within  the  American  lines  at  Saltillo.J 

WE  saw  their  watch-fires  through  the  night, 

Light  up  the  far  horizon's  verge  ; 
We  heard  at  dawn  the  gathering  fight, 

Swell  like  the  distant  ocean  surge — 
The  thunder-tramp  of  mountain  hordes 

From  distance  sweeps  a  boding  sound, 
As  Aztec's  twenty  thousand  swords 

And  clanking  chargers  shake  the  ground. 

A  gun ! — now  all  is  hushed  again — 

How  strange  that  lull  before  the  storm, 
That  fearful  silence  o'er  the  plain — 

Halt  they  their  battle  line  to  form  ? 
It  booms — it  booms— it  booms  again, 

And  through  each  thick  and  thunderous  shock 
The  war-scream  seems  to  pierce  the  brain, 

As  charging  squadrons  interlock. 


BUKNA   VISTA.  203 

Columbia's  sons — of  different  race — 

Proud  Aztec  and  bold  Alleghan, 
Are  giappled  there  in  death  embrace, 

To  rend  each  other,  man  to  man ! 

The  storm-clouds  lift,*  and  through  the  haze, 

Dissolving  in  the  noon-tide  light, 
I  see  the  sun  of  Aztec  blaze 

Upon  her  banner  broad  and  bright ! 
And  on  : — still  on,  her  ensigns  wave, 

Flinging  abroad  each  glorious  fold ; 
While  drooping  round  each  sullen  stave 

Cling  Alleghan's  but  half  unrolled. 

But  stay !  that  shout  has  stirred  the  air ; 
I  see  the  stripes— I  see  the  stars— 

0  God  !  who  leads  the  phalanx  there, 
Beneath  those  fearful  meteor  bars  ? 

1  OLD  ZACK  '— '  OLD  ZACK  '—the  war-cry  rattles 

Amid  those  men  of  iron  tread, 

*  "  While  the  battle  was  going  on,  there  came  up 
a  thick  black  cloud,  which  extended  itself  across  the 
valley  immediately  over  the  two  armies,  entirely  con 
cealing  them  from  my  view,  from  which  I  could  hear 
peal  after  peal  of  heavy  thunder,  and  see  the  sharp 
lightning  descend.  At  the  same  time  I  could  hear 
the  roar  of  the  canon  of  both  armies,  then  engaged 
in  deadly  conflict ;  as  though  Heaven's  artillery  was 
contending  against  that  of  feeble  man." — Letter 
from  an  Officer,  in  the  Knickerbocker. 


204     SONGS    AND    OCCASIONAL    POEMS. 

As  rung  '  Old  Fritz,'  in  Europe's  battles, 

When  thus  his  host  great  Frederick  led ! 
Like  Cordellieras  snow-fed  flood 

Its  torrent-track  through  forests  rending, 
Like  Santiago's  crashing  wood 

Through  which  it  whirls,  in  foam  descending, 
So  Taylor's  power  in  that  wild  hour 

Upon  our  central  might  is  thrown, 
So  round  his  dread  resistless  tread 

Our  bleeding  ranks  are  rent  and  strewn. 

Oh  !  hardly  from  that  carnage  dire 

We  drag  our  patriot  chief  away — 
Who,  crushed  by  famine,  steel  and  fire, 

Yet  claims  as  his  the  desperate  day  ! 
That  day  whose  sinking  light  is  shed 

O'er  Buena  Vista's  field,  to  tell, 
Where  round  the  sleeping  and  the  dead, 

Stalks  conquering  TAYLOR'S  sentinel. 


on 


NOTES  ON  KACHESCO. 


Those  peaks  where  fresh  the  Hudson  takes 
His  tribute  from  an  hundred  lakes. 

The  lakes,  which  form  the  sources  of  the  Hudson 
in  the  Adirondac  wilderness,  are  supposed  to  exceed 
this  number.  For  a  Topographical  account  of  this 


>y 

to  the  Legislature  of  the  State  of  New- York,  1838-9. 
These  mountains,  when  first  visited  by  the  present 
writer,  in  his  college  vacations,  were  much  frequented 
by  roving  Indian  hunters,  who  often  showed  a  hunt 
er's  friendliness  to  his  youngsterhood,  and  more  than 
one  of  whom  has  since  met  with  a  violent  death  amid 
these  solitudes.  The  country  seemed,  at  that  time, 
about  to  be  settled  by  white  people  as  a  grazing  dis 
trict.  But  the  opening  of  the  Erie  Canal  soon  after 
ward,  diverted  emigration  westward ;  and  the  Chief 
Engineer  of  the  Upper  Hudson  speaks,  in  his  first 
Report,  of  former  "  clearings  "  and  old  roads  being 


208  NOTES    ON    KACHKSCO. 

rendered  impassable  by  a  young  and  thick  forest 
growth,  and  wild  animals  making  their  lair  in  the 
cabins  of  former  settlers,  who  had  migrated  to  the 
prairies. 

Within  the  last  five  years,  however,  the  publication 
of  the  Geological  Survey  of  the  State  has  again 
brought  the  whole  Sacandaga  and  Adirondac  region 
into  fresh  and  favorable  notice  ;  and  its  rich  mineral 
resources,  not  less  than  its  magnificent  scenery,  are 
now  the  frequent  themes  of  correspondence  in  our 
periodicals,  alike  by  scientific  and  sporting  tourists. 
These,  since  the  first  edition  of  this  poem  was  pub 
lished,  have  made  its  attractions  pretty  generally 
known  ;  still  the  following  summing  up  of  its  charac 
teristics,  which  is  copied  here  from  the  "  Ithaca  Chro 
nicle,"  maybe  acceptable  to  the  summer  tourist,  from 
the  memorandum  of  different  routes  it  offers  to  those 
who  would  penetrate  the  "little  Switzerland"  de 
scribed  in  the  text : — 

"  An  immense  plateau  of  land,  elevated  more  than 
fourteen  hundred  feet  above  tide,  occupies  a  cen 
tral  position  between  the  Canada  line  on  the  north, 
and  'Mohawk  river  on  the  south — the  Champlain 
valley  on  the  east,  and  Lake  Ontario  on  the  west. 
It  covers  an  area  of  8000  square  miles,  equal  to  the 
whole  of  Massachusetts  and  a  corner  of  Rhode  Island. 
The  Adirondac  mountains  are  the  crowning  summits 
of  the  great  uplift,  and  Tahawus  or  Marcy,  the 
monarch  of  the  whole,  his  brow  of  rock  just  on  the 
boundary  of  Eternal  Frost.  You  enter  this  savage 
region  by  Lake  Champlain  to  Westport  or  Kees- 
ville— or  from  the  south  more  readily  by  Caldwell  to 
Schroon  Lake  and  Portersville,  thence  to  Long  Lake 
(Incapahco) ,  or  the  Iron  Works — or,  lastly,  from 
Saratoga,  by  the  way  of  the  Sacandaga  and  Lake 


NOTES    ON    KACHESCO.  209 

Pleasant  to  Raquet  lake.  In  this  uninhabited  terri 
tory  are  a  hundred  lakes  of  from  one  to  twenty  miles 
in  length — some  reposing  in  the  perpetual  shade  of 
interlocking  mountains,  others  flashing  like  silver 
mirrors  in  quiet  valleys  ;  and  all  of  them  alive  with 
the  finest  fish.  Streams  unnumbered  leap  from  the 
rocky  flanks  of  lofty  heights,  and  dash  off  ocean  ward 
beneath  the  foliage  of  a  primeval  forest.  In  these 
the  speckled  trout  dart  in  shoals,  and  bound  to  the 
surface  toward  evening,  as  if  in  a  perfect  frolic. 
Through  the  mountain  gorges  stray  the  sullen  bear 
and  tawny  moose,  while  the  beautiful  deer  feeds 
along  the  margin  of  the  solitary  waters,  and  the  pan 
ther  screams  in  the  tangled  thicket.  From  Tahawus 
and  Whiteface  you  can  sweep  a  circle  of  500  miles 
in  circumference,  and  all  an  ocean  of  mountains, 
holding  in  their  embrace  nearly  thirty  visible  lakes." 

STANZA  XIV. 

And  much  he  told  of  Metai  lore, 
Of  fVabenos  we  call  enchanters,  &c. 

ALGONQUIN  MYTHOLOGY  is  rich  in  its  native  in 
terpreters.  Sorcery,  as  practised  bv  the  Metai,  Wa- 
beno,  or  Jossakeed  of  our  aborigines,  keeps  them  in 
many  tribes,  more  or  less  in  bondage  to  a  class  of  men 
who  seem  to  officiate  as  conjurers,  priests,  and  sooth 
sayers.  Our  Indians,  although  worshipping  one  Great 
Spirit,  believe  in  the  existence  of  a  fanvl.ar  spirit  or 
Saifjiwv  in  all  things — (Lafitau,  James,  Schoolcraft)— * 
and  in  their  lodge  lore  we  have  an  interminable  cal 
endar  of  demi-gods  and  minor  divinities,  who  keep 
the  woods  from  being  lonely  (see  Discourse  on  Indian 
Mythology,  Coll.  N.  "X.  Hist.  Soc.).  Of  these  divi- 


210  NOTES    ON    KACIIESCO. 

nities,  Nabozhoo,  Manabozhoo  or  Nanaboshe,  (for 
all  these  names  apply  to  the  same  mythological  per 
sonage,)  and  Pa-puckwis  are  the  favorites  among  their 
story  tellers.  The  writer  has  given  the  principal  le 
gend  of  the  former  in  his  "  Wild  Scenes  of  the  Forest 
and  Prairie"  (Bentley,  London,  1838).  It  is  more 
curious  than  poetic. 

With  regard  to  PA-PUCKWIS,  the  red  elf  who  figures 
in  many  a  pleasant  tale  preserved  in  Schoolcraft's 
valuable  "  Algic  Researches" — he  is  always  repre 
sented  as  very  small,  and  as  frequently  being  invisi 
ble  ;  vanishing  and  reappearing  to  those  whom  he 
visits  with  his  pranks.  It  is  as  the  leader  of  the 
PUCKWUDJEES,  however,  that  this  godikin  is  most 
entitled  to  consideration.  These  elvish  beings  are 
described  as  inhabiting  and  loving  rocky  heights, 
caves,  crevices,  or  rural  and  romantic  points  of  land, 
upon  the  lakes,  bays,  and  rivers,  particularly  if  they 
be  crowned  with  pine  trees.  They  are  depicted  in 
the  oral  legends  of  the  Algonquins,  as  flitting  among 
thickets,  or  running,  with  a  whoop,  up  the  sides  of 
mountains  and  over  plains.  The  following  explana 
tion,  by  our  most  distinguished  Algonquin  scholar, 
of  the  etymology  of  the  term,  may  interest  the  philo 
logical  reader. 

"  The  term  puck,  as  heard  in  Puckwudj,  is  found 
in  a  number  of  compound  phrases  in  the  Odjibiwa 
dialect  of  the  Algonquins.  It  assumes  an  adjective, 
a  verbal,  !>r  a  substantive  form,  according  to  the  ad 
juncts  whicn  either  precede  or  follow  it,  for  the  vo 
cabulary  of  the  language,  although  founded  on  roots, 
which  are  generally  monosyllables,  is  exceedingly 
compound  in  its  structure.  Thus,  if  the  term  puck 
be  thrust  in  between  the  particles  pa  and  ewa,  it 
means  a  grasshopper ;  if  between  pa  and  ewiss,  it  is 


NOTES    ON    KACHESCO.  211 

the  name  of  a  mythological  personage,  who,  in  the 
lodge  legends  of  the  Algonquins,  is  a  roving,  jump 
ing,  dancing,  adventure-hunting  character  ;  a  kind 
of  harum-scarum  or  merry-andrew,  who  performs 
all  sorts  of  feats  and  pranks.  If  followed  by  the  ver 
bal  particle  eta,  it  means  to  strike,  to  beat,  to  belabor. 
If  put  between  the  vowel  a  and  wa,  it  denotes  a  nod 
ding  flag  or  '  cat-tail.'  If  followed  by  the  substantive 
term  emik,  it  denotes  a  rampant  beaver.  Prefixed  to 
the  particle  wudj,  the  result  is  an  adjective  phrase 
meaning  wild,  roving,  unfixed,  changing.  Ininec 
is  the  diminutive  form  of  the  term  for  man.  The  most 
common  interpretation  of  the  word  Puck-wudj-ininee 
is  '  the  little  wild  man  of  the  woods  that  vanishes.'  " 
— Extract  of  a  letter  to  the  author,  from  H.  R. 
Schoolcraft,  Esq.,  Dec.  2,  1844. 

With  regard  to  "the  Path  of  Spirits,"  and  other 
matters  relating  to  disembodied  souls  in  the  subse 
quent  stanza,  that  excellent  Indian  authority,  Dr. 
Edwin  James,  formerly  of  the  army,  gives  us  an 
Algonquin  term  for  the  milky  way,  which  term  he 
translates  "  the  path  of  ghosts."  The  early  French 
writers  also  set  down  the  name  of  the  galaxy  in  Iro- 
quois  as  Ennoniawa,  or  "  the  path  of  souls."  "An 
Indian  (says  James)  of  whom  I  made  some  inquiries 
respecting  a  friend  of  his  that  had  recently  died,  re 
plied  to  me  in  a  very  earnest  manner,  '  kunkotow 
naiponit  otachuk,'  at  no  time  will  die  his  shadow." 

The  same  writer,  when  on  duty  at  Prairie  Du 
Chien,  heard  some  Indians  reproving  one  of  their 
tribe,  who  had  been  ill,  for  what  they  considered  im 
prudent  exertion  and  exposure  during  his  recovery, 
telling  him  that  "  his  shadow  was  not  yet  well  set 
tled.1'  Among  the  Chippewas,  a  covering  of  cedar 
bark  is  put  over  the  top  of  the  grave  to  shed  the  rain. 


212  NOTES    ON    KACHESCO. 


wa  why  this  was  done.  "  To  allow  the  soul  to  pass 
out  and  in,"  said  the  Indian.  "  I  thought  (said  Mr. 
S.)  that  you  believed  that  the  soul  went  up  from  the 
body,  at  the  time  of  death,  to  a  land  of  happiness ! 
How,  then,  can  it  remain  in  the  body?"  "There 
are  two  souls,"  answered  the  Indian  philosopher. 
"How  can  that  be?"  "It  is  easily  explained," 
continued  the  Chippewa.  "You  know  that  in 
dreams  we  pass  over  wide  countries,  and  see  hills, 


which 


time,  our  bodies  do  not  stir,  and  there  is  a  soul  left 
with  the  body — else  it  would  be  dead !  So  you  per 
ceive  it  must  be  another  soul  that  accompanies  us !" 
—  Oneota.  Lafitau  I  think  has  several  authorities  to 
show  that  this  belief  was  shared  by  the  Iroquois  ;  and 
Le  Pere  de  Brebceuf,  writing  nearly  200  years  ago, 
tells  that,  having  asked  an  old  Huron  why  they  called 
bodies  which  had  been  long  dead  by  the  name  of 
E-kenn  (a  plural  word  signifying  souls),  was  an 
swered  that  they  believed  all  men  to  possess  two 
souls,  both  divisible  and  material,  yet  both  rational. 
That  one  separates  itself  from  the  body  at  death,  yet 
remains  in  the  cemetery  until  "  the  feast  of  the  dead," 
when  it  was  changed  into  a  turtle-dove,  or  as  is  more 
commonly  believed,  went  directly  to  tha  place  of 
spirits.  The  other  soul  is  as  it  were  attached  to  the 
body,  and  still  possesses  the  corpse,  remaining  always 
in  the  grave,  unless  some  one  should  reproduce  it  as 
an  infant ;  and  the  proof  of  this  last  metamorphosis 
is  found  in  the  extraordinary  resemblance  which  ex- 


NOTES    ON    KACHKSCO.  213 

ists  often  between  young  persons  and  those  who  have 
long  been  dead.  The  catalogue  of  our  aboriginal 
metamorphosis  seems  to  be  inexhaustible.  (See 
Schoolcraft's  writings,  passim.)  One  of  the  most 
beautiful  is  that  of  Ojeeg,  "  the  Summer  Maker," 
who  sprang  from  the  top  of  a  mountain  against  the 
sky,  and  after  making  a  hole  large  enough  to  let  the 
warm  airs  of  summer  rush  through,  for  the  benefit 
of  his  friends  below,  was  himself  changed  into  a 
constellation.  More  touching,  however,  are  the  trans 
formations  which  follow  death  caused  by  the  religious 
fast  which  public  opinion  compels  the  young  warrior 
to  keep  when  he  first  comes  of  age.  This  fast  is 
often  maintained  by  the  pious  aspirant  who  is  unfa 
vored  with  any  visitation  either  from  this  world  or 
the  other,  until  death  closes  the  torture  he  endures 
without  complaining  ;  and  many  a  fragile  youth  thus 
perishing  from  inanition,  in  this  treble  trial  of  his 
firmness,  his  faith,  and  his  fancy,  has  passed  away, 
less  gracefully  than  Opee-chee  ;  "that  gentle  and  fam 
ished  boy  whom  his  Manito  changed  into  a  robin,  as 
he  sank  exhausted  when  he  had  just  half-covered  his 
bosom  with  the  red  war  paint. — Gilmari's  "  Life  on 
the  Lakes,"  1837. 

With  regard  to  the  worship  of  our  aborigines, 
whether  the  Manitou  of  the  Algonquin,  the  Neo, 
Owaneo  or  Havvaneyu  of  the  Iroquois,  or  the  Wacon- 
dah  of  the  Prairie  tribes  be  its  object,  their  priests 
seem  to  have  little  agency  in  ministering  at  the  In 
dian's  adoration  of  The  Great  Spirit.  There  are  no 
witnesses  save  from  the  invisible  world  of  his  lonely 
act  of  forest  worship,  and  his  piety  is  the  spontane 
ous,  and  as  we  might  say,  the  involuntary  tribute  of 
his  feelings  (James).  The  recognition  of  the  Sun  as 
at  once  the  Emblem  and  the  Eye  of  the  Eternal, 


214  NOTES    ON    KACHESCO. 

often  dwelt  upon  by  early  Canadian  travellers  among 
our  northern  tribes  (Lafitau),  is  but  seldom  alluded  to 
by  modern  observers,  but  the  traditionary  belief  is 
still  traceable  in  the  usage  of  each  pious  smoker  of 
fering  the  first  incense  of  his  calumet  to  the  Sun, 
whence  it  was  originally  lighted  (Picard).  Tobacco, 
which  those  not  reclaimed  from  heathen  usages  still 
insist  is  the  choicest  offering  a  devout  Indian  can 
make,  either  to  the  great  Father  of  all  or  to  his  own 
special  tutelary  divinity — is  believed  in  its  human  use 
to  induce  chastity  and  sober  all  the  sensual  appetites, 
and  by  thus  purifying  the  soul  to  prepare  it  for  visions 
of  the  spiritual  world,  and  at  the  same  time  impel 
the  seer  to  communicate  with  those  around  him  (La 
fitau).  Yet  often  will  the  hunter  in  his  tribulation 
part  with  the  last  morsel  of  this  specific  for  spirituality 
in  himself  in  order  to  propitiate  some  testy  spirit 
among  the  Manitoag,  that  dulls  his  flint  or  damps 
his  priming,  or  blows  his  canoe  upon  some  rough 
headland  he  is  trying  to  double  in  the  tempest  (School- 
craft;. 

Among  the  Algonquins,  Kitchi  Manitou  is  the 
great  good  Spirit  of  all,  while  MACHINETO  (or 
Matchi  Manito)  represents  the  opposing  Evil  Spirit 
(James).  Among  the  Iroquois  we  have  NEO  and 
KLTJNEOLUX,  corresponding  in  character  with  those 
divinities  (Schoolcraft).  But  we  find  no  tradition 
nor  doctrine  showing  that  the  Fiend  can  torment  the 
Red  Man's  spirit  in  another  world.  He  passes 
through  many  trials  on  his  way  to  paradise,  but  his 
only  durable  punishment  is  that  of  transformation 
into  an  inferior  animal.  Before  the  newly  departed 
shadow  can  reach  those  blessed  islands,  amid  which 
lie  embowered  the  villages  of  the  dead,  many  obsta 
cles  are  to  be  encountered,  and  many  difficulties 


NOTES    ON    KACHESCO.  215 

overcome.  The  disembodied  shades  must  cross  a 
river,  too  deep  and  rapid  to  be  forded,  in  a  stone  ca 
noe  ;  they  must  next  traverse  a  bottomless  chasm, 
bridged  only  by  an  enormous  snake,  on  whose  slimy 
back  they  walk ;  and  finally  pass  over  a  still  more 
boisterous  torrent  than  the  preceding,  upon  a  single 
tottering  log,  which  spans  the  roaring  gulf  below. 
This  log  is  constantly  vibrating  upwards  and  down 
wards,  with  such  violence,  that  many,  alike  children 
and  adults,  are  precipitated  into  the  gulf,  when 
they  are  changed  into  fish  and  turtles,  and  other  cold 
blooded  animals  (Coll.  N.  Y.  Hist.  Soc.). 

There  are  many  traditions  of  once  departed  spirits 
having  repassed  this  perilous  bridge  and  come  back 
to  earth.  Dr.  James  has  collected  several  legends 
of  this  kind  ;  and  in  Picard's  Ceremonies  Religieuses 
is  preserved  an  account  nearly  identical  with  the  fol 
lowing  story  of  an  Iroquois  Orpheus  : — 

Driven  almost  to  despair  by  the  death  of  his  sister, 
Sayadyio  resolved  to  seek  her  in  the  world  of  spirits. 
His  journey,  long  and  painful,  might  have  proved 
bootless  throughout,  if  he  had  not  met  with  an  aged 
man,  who  encouraged  his  search,  and  at  the  same 
time  gave  him  an  empty  calabash,  in  which  he  might 
enclose  the  soul  of  his  sister,  should  he  succeed  in 
finding  it.  The  same  accommodating  old  gentleman 
likewise  promised  Sayadyio  that  he  would  give  him 
also  the  maiden's  brains,  which  he  had  in  his  posses 
sion,  he  being  the  appointed  keeper  of  that  portion 
of  the  dead.  The  young  man  arrived  at  last  in  the 
place  of  souls.  The  spirits  were  astonished  to  see 
him,  and  eagerly  fled  his  presence.  Tharonhiawagou, 
the  master  of  the  ceremonies  in  phantom  good  society, 
received  him  well,  however,  and  became  instantly 
his  friend.  At  the  moment  of  Sayadyio's  arrival, 


216  NOTES    ON    KACHESCO. 

the  souls  were  all  gathered  for  a  dance,  according  to 
their  custom  at  that  hour.  He  recognised  his  sister 
floating  through  the  phantom  corps  de  ballet,  and 
rushed  to  embrace  her,  but  she  vanished  like  a  dream 
of  the  night.  Tharonhiawagou,  however,  kindly 
furnished  our  adventurer  with  a  mystical  rattle  of 
strange  musical  power ;  and  when  the  sound  of  the 
spirit-drum,  which  marks  the  time  for  the  choral 
dance  of  those  blessed  shades,  had  summoned  them 
back  to  their  places,  and  the  Indian  flute  poured  the 
enchanting  notes  that  lift  them  along,  upon  a  tide 
of  melody,  the  magic  rattle  of  Sayadyio,  a  stronger 
"  medicine  "  than  either,  charmed  the  soul  of  the 
Indian  maiden  within  the  reach  of  her  brother. 
Cluick  as  light,  Sayadyio  dipped  up  the  entranced 
spirit,  and  shut  it  securely  in  his  calabash  ;  then,  de 
spite  the  entreaties  and  artifices  of  the  captive  soul, 
who  only  thought  of  being  delivered  from  her  present 
prison,  this  Iroquois  Orpheus  made  the  best  of  his 
way  back  to  earth,  and  arrived  in  safety  with  his 
precious  charge  in  his  native  village.  His  own  and 
his  sister's  friends  were  now  called  together,  and  the 
body  of  the  damsel  was  disinterred,  and  prepared  to 
receive  the  soul  which  should  re-animate  it.  Every 
thing  was  ready  to  complete  the  resurrection,  when 
the  impatience  of -one  of  the  female  attendants  utterly 
foiled  the  success  of  the  attempt.  Some  red  sister  of 
Eve  who  wW  among  the  lookers  on,  could  not  restrain 
her  curiosity.  She  had  loved  the  deceased  maiden, 
and  she  must  needs  peep  into  the  calabash  to  see  how 
the  soul  looked  divested  of  all  drapery.  Whereon, 
precisely  as  Eros  of  old  spread  his  pinions  and  flew 
from  prying  Psyche,  so  the  soul  took  wing  on  the 
instant,  and  fled  from  prying  love.  As  the  flying 
shade  casts  no  shadow  in  its  movements  through  our 


O- 


NOTES    ON    KACHESCO.  217 

atmosphere,  Sayadyio  could  not  trace  it  even  for  a 
moment  in  its  flight,  and  abandoning  all  pursuit,  he 
was  obliged  to  sit  down  disconsolate,  with  the  con 
viction  that  he  had  derived  no  other  benefit  from  his 
journey,  than  that  of  having  been  in  the  place  of 
souls,  and  having  it  in  his  power  to  relate  certain 
true  things  which  would  not  fail  of  reaching  pos 
terity. 

STAtfZA  XVI. 

Of  portages  and  lakes  whose  name 
./2s  uttered  in  his  native  speech, 
Jf  memory  could  have  hoarded  each 
A  portage-labor  'twere  to  carry. 

It  is  very  difficult,  even  with  the  aid  of  the  strag 
gling  Indians,  who  still  haunt  the  wilderness  around 
the  sources  of  the  Hudson,  to  recover  the  aboriginal 
Terminology.  The  Hurons,  the  Adirondacs,  the 
Otawas,  and  Iroquois,  had  probably  there,  for  centu 
ries,  their  common  hunting  ground  ;  and  the  geograph 
ical  names,  therefore,  often  traceable  to  at  least  four 
different  languages,  are  necessarily  much  confused  ; 
while,  from  occasional  similarity  of  physical  feature 
in  lake  and  mountain,  none  but  our  habitual  dwellers 
in  these  solitudes  could  properly  identify  the  Indian 
terms  with  the  localities  to  which  they  refer.  Still, 
the  explanation  of  those  which  occur  in  the  succeed 
ing  stanzas  may,  perhaps,  interest  the  idle  tourist  who 
wanders  to  the  wild  region  described  in  the  text : 
Reuna  (or  A-rey-una) ,  Green-rocks.  Paskungemah, 
better  known,  perhaps,  as  Tupper's  Lake.  Onegora, 
"  wampum  strewn,"  equivalent  to  the  Seneca  Tunes- 
sa-sah,  "  a  place  of  pebbles."  Towarloondah 
(Mohawk),  "Hill  of  Storms;"  supposed  to  be  the 


218  NOTES    ON    KACIIESCO. 

"Mount  Emmons"  of  the  Geological  Survey.  Ou- 
korlah  (Mohawk),  "  The  Big  Eye,"  from  a  singular 
white  spot  near  the  summit.  It  is  named  "  Mount 
Seward"  in  the  Geological  Survey.  Ounowarlah 
(Mohawk),  "Scalp  Mountain."  Nodoneyo,  "  Hill 
of  the  Wind,  Spirit."  Wahopartenie,  known  also 
as  "White  Face  Mountain."  Yowhayle,  "Dead- 
ground."  Tioratie  (Mohawk),  "  The  Sky,  or  Sky- 
like."  Kurloonah,  "  Place  of  the  Death  Song," 
Cahogaronta,  "  Torrent  in  the  Woods."  Tahawus 
means  literally,  "He  splits  the  Sky:"  it  is  called 
"  Mount  Marcy' '  in  the  Geological  Survey.  Metauk, 
"The  Enchanted  Wood,"  evidently  from  Metai  and 
Awuk.  Sandanona,  a  mountain  near  Lake  Hen 
derson.  Owiendaugua,  a  cascade,  like  "  A  Hanging 
Spear."  Twenungasko,  a  double  voice. 

STANZA  XVII. 

Yes,  INCA-PAH-CO  /  though  thy  name 
Has  never  flowed  in  poet1  s  numbers. 

"  Inca-pah-co,"  (anglice,  Lindenmere)  is  so  called 
by  the  Indians  from  its  forests  of  Bass-wood,  or 
American  Linden.  It  is  better  known,  perhaps,  by 
the  insipid  name  of  "Long  Lake;"  and  is  one  of 
that  chain  of  mountain  lakes  which,  though  closely 
interlacing  with  the  sources  of  the  Hudson,  discharge 
themselves  through  Racket  river  into  the  St.  Law 
rence.  They  lie  on  the  borders  of  Essex,  in  Hamilton 
county,  New- York.  Inca-pah-co,  where  the  scene 
of  our  story  is  chiefly  laid,  is  about  eighteen  miles  in 
length ;  but  though  a  noble  lake,  it  is,  perhaps,  not 
so  picturesque  in  character  as  some  of  those  referred 
to  in  the  previous  note.  The  finest  of  all,  perhaps, 


NOTES    ON    KACHKSCO.  219 

Killoquore  (Mohawk),  rayed,  like  the  sun,  is  some 
times  called  "  Ragged  Lake." 

STANZA  XXVI. 

"  ....  that  gorge's  quaking  throat, 

Reft  by  Otneyarh's  giant  band, 

Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  vast, 
Though  lashed  by  cable  roots,  aghast, 

Toppling,  amid  their  ruin,  stand" 

The  Giant's  Pass,  near  Lake  Henderson,  is  one  of 
the  finest  scenes  of  the  Adirondac  mountains,  if  not 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary  upon  the  continent. 
The  writer  has  attempted  a  description  of  it  in  his 
"  Wild  Scenes  of  the  Forest  and  Prairie,"  where  a 
particular  version  of  the  Iroquois  legend  of  Otneyarh, 
or  the  band  of  Stonish  Giants,  is  also  given.  These 
fabled  monsters  were  walking  quarries  of  flint,  in  the 
shape  of  men,  who  could  stride  through  your  com 
mon  granite  as  if  it  were  cheese.  They  certainly 
dashed  the  crags  to  the  right  and  left  after  a  most  ex 
traordinary  fashion  in  that  colossal  "Notch"  near 
the  Adirondac  Iron  Works.  See  the  testimony  of 
Cusick,  an  Indian,  about  these  ancient  folk,  in 
Schoolcraft's  "  Notes  on  the  Iroquois.'* 


PART    I.— STANZA!. 

Bright  Nulkah,  doe-eyed  forest  girl! 

Nulkah,  or  "  Noolka,"  means  "  doe-eyed,"  in  one 
of  our  Indian  dialects. 


220  NOTES    ON    KACHESCO. 

STANZA  VIII. 

The  Red  Bird's  nest  above  it  swung  ; 
There  often  the  Ma-ma-twa  sung  ; 
And  Moning-gwuna1  s  quills  of  gold 
Through  leaves  like  flickering  sunshine  told. 

The  Red  Bird,  Baltimore  Oriole,  or  "hanging  bird,' 
as  he  is  often  called,  from  the  mode  of  building  his 
nest,  is  very  brief  in  his  visits  to  this  mountain  region. 
The  Ma-ma-twa,  or  Cat-bird,  the  finest  of  our  north 
ern  songsters,  save  the  Bob-o-linkum,  exercises  his 
mocking  freakishness  there  upon  sounds  which  he 
can  rarely  find  to  imitate  in  the  woods  elsewhere ; 
and  this  may  make  him  linger  longer  with  the  short 
summer.  But  the  Moning-gwuna,  "  High-Hold," 
"  Golden  Winged  Woodpecker,"  and  "  Flicker," 
as  he  is  severally  called,  seems  to  make  this  his  favor 
ite  region  ;  and  wherever  there  is  an  opening  in  the 
forest,  his  rich  orange-colored  wing  will  be  seen  play 
ing,  like  bright-hned  flowers,  around  some  old  gray 
stumo. 

STANZA  XXII. 

To  wander  thus  where'er  he  may, 
Of  woman  and  of  man  the  scorn. 

In  some  tribes,  when  the  penalty  of  death  is  thus 
changed  foi  that  of  degradation,  the  criminal  who  so 
regains  his  forfeited  life  is  considered  as  unsezed.  He 
then  becomes  the  menial  slave  of  the  first  person  who 
chooses  to  take  possession  of  him,  and  is  obliged  to 
submit  to  tasks  of  exposure  the  most  toilsome,  and 
domestic  offices  the  most  humiliating ;  his  master  or 
ovner  (or  husband,  as  he  is  whimsically  called,)  be- 


NOTES    ON    KACIIESCO  231 

ing  permitted  to  exercise  every  species  of  tyrannical 
cruelty  upon  him,  provided  he  shed  not  the  blood  of 
the  poor  wretch  who  is  thus  subjected  to  his  caprices. 
See  Tanner's  Narrative :  see  also  "  The  Equawish," 
in  "Life  on  the  Lakes,"  by  the  author  of  "Le 
gends  of  a  Log  Cabin" 


